


In his smoke

by sprosslee



Series: Yurimil [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adopted Children, Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Being lovesick, Bisexuality, Cheating, Coming of Age, Condoms, Lots of foreign terms without explanation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Polyamory, Reality strikes again, Safe Sane and Consensual, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Vomit, blowjob, cute smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprosslee/pseuds/sprosslee
Summary: After another mediocre season, Emil struggles with his feelings for the Crispino twins and with the certainty that his figure skating career is coming to an end. At the same time, Yuri is at the height of his career and winning everything, except the heart of famously unapproachable Seung-Gil.When Emil and Yuri meet at a hotel bar to lick their wounds together, everything changes.As mediocre and humble Emil slowly tries to worm his way into Yuri’s life, will Yuri let him in and learn to accept his feelings?





	1. Yuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written for the Live and Love Yuri on Ice Big Bang. You can read it as it is or enjoy Yuri and Emil’s stories separately. Whatever you decide, enjoy <3

Surprisingly enough, mediocre people don’t like being called mediocre. It took Yuri quite some time to figure this out, almost as long as he needed to understand that he doesn’t really give a shit about what other people think. He’s just learned not to tell them to their face that they suck because all the tears and the screaming are just not worth it.

Nobody said anything about not bragging about himself and his abilities, though.

“What’s your secret, Mr. Plisetsky?”, they ask him at the press conference after the Grand Prix Final where he won gold again. The other skaters tried their best, Yuri has to give them that much. They outdid themselves, some even managed to score a personal best because they were lucky and well-rested. People like Seung-Gil, Guang-Hong and Minami are pretty happy with being mediocre, it seems. 

Others, like Michele and Otabek, are more ambitious. They wanted to win, at least once, and surprised the audience with perfect programs. The crowd went wild. 

And still, Yuri came out on top.

“I’m simply the best, that’s all”, he replies with all the honesty he can muster, grins and raises an eyebrow. Everyone in the room laughs politely and the cameras flash. They will call him arrogant and intemperate and far too facially-pierced for a figure skating star – but since he’s won everything a human being can win in ice skating since he was a kid, he couldn’t care less about the opinion of some shitty, second-rate reporters, or what his fellow skaters think of him. 

Later at the banquet, where it is loud and fun and hot, Otabek hugs him tight. “You did great, Yura,” he says and looks splendid in his tailor-made suit, Mila by his side. She also congratulates Yuri with a breathtaking bear hug and doesn’t miss her chance to lift him over her head like when they were teenagers – life as a dance instructor and his best friend’s fiancée obviously hasn’t cut down her strength at all. 

“Let me down, I’m too old for this shit!”, Yuri protests half-heartedly. Otabek laughs when she just does what he tells her to do. It’s good that he started practicing the best way to fall as a toddler, when his grandfather told him he was nothing like the rest of the kids in skating class. Not mediocre, but something special.

Mila giggles a vodka-infused giggle. “You may have grown but you’re still as light as a feather.”

“Stupid hag”, Yuri spits and brushes some dirt off of his knees. It’s good that his vintage Armani suit didn’t rip. Viktor would kill him without a second thought and smile that placid smile while doing so.

“I love you too, Yuratchka”, Mila says. “You’ll still come to our wedding in August despite hating me, right?”

“I don’t hate you and I promised you already. Although I’m not looking forward to another sappy wedding after what the idiots did at theirs.” Bubble machines, a horse carriage and a hundred goddamn white doves which shat on his thousand-dollar suit – he has no intention of repeating the experience. Ever. 

Mila clings to Otabek. “Come on, it’s gonna be fun! We won’t be as sappy as Viktor and Yuuri, I promise.”

How can he say no to Mila? To one of his best friends? “No horses or doves or any other stupid vermin, okay?” And it would also be nice if there was another cute Japanese DJ to fuck right behind the pavillon.

“No animals, and yay, this means you’ll have to come”, she says. “So tell me, who’s gonna be your plus one?”

Yuri lets his eyes wander in the room, watches some of the ice dancers from Sweden – one guy even dares to wink at him – and admires the pretty chandelier in the middle of the room while he tries to come up with a name, any name. Damn. There is no one he can think of. “Can I bring one of my Grindr dates?” he says eventually and finds it very amusing when Mila almost chokes on her sex on the beach. “Just kidding. I’ll ask around and find someone respectable, I promise.”

Mila rolls her eyes. “Don’t embarrass us, okay? I’ll kill you if you bring one of those ice hockey jocks with an IQ of 80 who can’t form a complete sentence and –”

Otabek stops his fiancée with a soft touch on her arm. “Babe, it’s still a few months.”

“Okay, we’ll see what you have in store for us”, Mila says and winks. “And now let’s drink. My Yura won gold today. Again. Beka, he beat you, again!” She pokes Otabek in the ribs. “What do you want, gold medallist? Vodka, like the old times? A fancy ass cocktail? You decide.”

Yuri chooses cranberry juice for tonight. He’s thinking of riding his rented bike through town later and doesn’t have a specific urge to get drunk. His friends don’t feel the same way. With a stern face, Otabek finishes his third shot in a row and Mila’s cheeks become redder as her jokes become dirtier each time she signals the waiter to bring another cocktail. 

Watching them being in love and enjoying their evening together is almost as calming as observing the couples on the dance floor slowly dancing to a song with hilariously cheesy lyrics. Not that Yuri gives a shit about love or romance – a hot one-week affair is more his thing than a life-long commitment. But he has to admit that being around people he likes and who are in love is somehow... nice. Not even the sight of his coaches trying to eat each other’s faces on the other side of the hall can darken his excellent mood. 

  
  


Otabek kisses Mila on the forehead. Yuri takes another sip of juice to mask a smile. “You look good together”, he says and huffs when Mila’s eyes turn wide. “Yeah, sorry, I _can_ be nice sometimes. Don’t get used to it.” But it’s true, Mila and Otabek together look like they’ve stepped out of the pages of a magazine, making him feeling strangely in love with both of them. “Oh God. I might need some vodka with my juice.” It must be the endorphins from winning making him all sentimental. 

While he snaps his fingers to signal a waitress, his eyes wander and eventually land on Minami. Yuri is not particularly fond of his rinkmate, especially since he’s basically Yuri’s rival – or at least that’s what Viktor and Yuuri would have him think. So normally Yuri would just ignore Minami, or glare at him because that always makes him cower. Which is pretty funny.

But something is off tonight. Minami is leaning on the wall right opposite where Yuri and his friends are standing. In front of him there is a shorter man who Yuri only identifies as Seung-Gil after squinting his eyes for a moment. The simple black suit he wears tonight is so much less flamboyant that his usual colourful skating outfits, so it’s not surprising. 

What’s going on between the two is hard to tell. Yuri tilts his head as if this is somehow able to make him see better. Minami smiles a tortured smile and makes a defensive gesture, Seung-Gil steps closer. “What in the flying fuck,” Yuri mumbles.

This catches Otabek’s attention. “Minami?” he says and follows the direction of Yuri’s eyes. “Oh, is that Seung-Gil Lee?”

Mila chuckles. “Is that guy trying to hit on Kenjirou? Good luck with that.”

Yuri grunts. Good luck indeed – Minami exclusively dates female ice dancers from Europe and prefers strawberry blondes and brunettes with medium chests. Yuri knows that because he’s so _not_ Minami’s type. Which might or might not be the main reason why their relationship has been a bit icy over the last couple of months. Still, Yuri cannot took away. “This is a fucking train wreck. Jesus Christ.” 

He hasn’t felt this much second hand embarrassment for ages. Minami is obviously trying to escape, says something Yuri can’t hear over the music, but Seung-Gil doesn’t seem to care and is getting closer and closer. Desperately, Minami tries to move out of his way with a slide to the left that is reminiscent of his free program step sequence. 

It’s useless. Seung-Gil, who obviously has had too much to drink, is a man on a mission. Said mission appears to be _The seduction of the absolutely heterosexual Kenjirou Minami_. Then Minami is staring at Yuri, pleading for help with his doe-like eyes. One could ignore him, if, of course, one was a terrible person.

“Fuck it.” Yuri rolls his eyes. Goddamn grandpa and his parenting, goddamn bad conscience, goddamn Coach Yuuri who would not survive it if his apprentice got hurt in any way. “ _Why me?_ ” 

“Go get him, ice tiger”, Mila cheers. Her eyes sparkle. 

Otabek pats him on the shoulder. “You’re a good friend”, he says. His grin is too smug for his own good.

“Take that back.”

“Later, bro!”

Yuri gives him the finger, ignores the laughter and crosses the room in a few steps until he’s right behind Seung-Gil. The black hair shines in the light of the chandelier like a raven’s feathers. Seung-Gil’s shoulder feels bony under the expensive suit. 

“Oi, stop pestering my rinkmate”, Yuri says.

In a fluid motion, Seung-Gil turns around and tries to stare Yuri down, and when he sees he can’t do that to someone who grew up with a dozen grumpy cats, he comes closer, too close. The smell of the booze he oozes almost knocks Yuri for six. Somehow he also manages to notice that Seung-Gil’s eyes are a very pretty grey. “Whaddaya want, Plisetsky?”

“Just wanna talk,” Yuri improvises. Minami sees his chance to escape, does so with a whispered _thanks_ on his lips and leaves them alone. He is safe and sound and will most likely gift Yuri some chocolate truffles in the next few days. God, how Yuri hates chocolate truffles and unimaginative people. Still, mission accomplished. 

But he just has to look at the miserable creature in front of him to see that his job is far from done. “Where’s your trainer?” he asks. “Your… friends?” Wait. Does Seung-Gil even have friends? 

“Bed?” Seung-Gil answers and grins. 

It’s everything Yuri needs to hear. Contrary to popular belief, Nikolai Plisetsky didn’t raise a rude brat. It’s just that there’s a time to be kind and a time to tell assholes to fuck off. 

This is not a situation where he can just walk away. Seung-Gil is drunk, yes. He’s also an idiot when he’s had too much, and it’s common knowledge in the skating world. But there’s obviously no-one else to take him back to his hotel room, to tuck him in and wipe away his vomit.

Yuri grabs Seung-Gil’s arm. “Come. I’ll take you home.”

Home is the Merian Inn, Yuri finds out after escorting Seung-Gil out of the banquet hall. “Where’s your coat?” he asks him at the coat check while he slips into his leather jacket and grabs his helmet. 

Seung-Gil is so drunk he’s basically cross-eyed. “You’ve got a pretty face, do you know that?”

“Shut up.” Okay, no coat then, Seung-Gil will have to pick it up tomorrow when he’s sober. Yuri knows where the hotel is, he’s also been staying there for the last few days. It’s not too far away and Marseille is cold tonight but not so cold that a bit of winter wind will kill Seung-Gil. At least, not immediately. So Yuri pushes him through the automatic doors, chilly air biting his ankles. 

Yuri’s rented Kawasaki is parked right at the entrance, the second helmet that he had the foresight to bring for a potential date still attached to the handlebar. Yuri hands the helmet to Seung-Gil, who stares at it until he remembers what it is for and then helplessly tries to put it on. 

Yuri swears under his breath. “Come here.” Cold wind tears at his thin dress pants while he fixes the clasp so that the helmet won’t fall off. 

“Vroom vroom”, Seung-Gil says and giggles as if this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard. 

“Yeah exactly, vroom vroom, you moron.” Drunk people are the worst. Yuri climbs onto his bike and starts the engine. “Hey, can you manage to get on, hold onto me and not fall off?”

With an elegance that Yuri wouldn’t have expected in his current state, Seung-Gil swings his leg over and places himself behind Yuri. Slim arms circle Yuri’s waist; Seung-Gil presses himself against Yuri and mumbles that he’s ready. 

Yuri lets the engine roar because he can and because it sounds fucking awesome. “Don’t let go.” And off they go. 

***

The Merian Inn is run-down but has a parking place behind the building. Yuri kills the engine and kicks the stand down while Seung-Gil sits behind him and hums quietly. He has been a pretty decent pillion passenger and didn’t do anything stupid apart from singing some Korean pop song off-key, something Yuri is very grateful for. Now he only has to maneuver Seung-Gil into his room and he’s done with this. He’ll be able to drive back to the banquet and chill with his friends, maybe even watch them get very drunk. “Get off. What’s your room number?” he says. 

As an answer Seung-Gil digs in his pocket and eventually produces a key card, then he climbs off the bike. 

Room 312, Yuri reads and grabs Seung-Gil’s hand, which is icy and damp. He drags him through the main entrance, the lobby and into the elevator where he presses the button to the third floor. Generic music plays and Seung-Gil giggles. 

“Why are you laughing like an idiot?” 

“Lost Minami and won Plisetsky,” Seung-Gil slurs. He leans against the wall of the elevator. His eyes are glassy. “Win-win situation?”

“Stop talking shit.” How many drinks Seung-Gil had Yuri doesn’t wanna know. He also is not interested in why Seung-Gil got so wasted. He doesn’t care about this man. He’s only here because he wasn’t raised by wolves.

With a ping they arrive on the third floor. Seung-Gil falls out of the elevator and stumbles straight to his room while humming the melody of his free program. 

_He can’t be entirely gone if he can still find his way home_. Seung-Gil behaves like an extremely intoxicated carrier pigeon, Yuri thinks and can’t help but grin. He follows Seung-Gil and shoves him out of his way to open the door. “Ok, idiot, here we are. Here’s your keycard.”

Seung-Gil hesitates for a second before he takes it. Now Yuri just has to wait until the door closes and then he can finally go back to where the party happens, where he –

When Seung-Gil hugs him Yuri is so bewildered that he freezes entirely. 

“Thanks,” Seung-Gil whispers, his soft fingers curling at the nape of Yuri’s neck where his hair is shaved, his forehead pressed against Yuri’s chin. The physical contact makes Yuri shudder pleasantly. “You’re a good person, Plisetsky.” Seung-Gil tilts his head and his lips are so close to Yuri’s that Yuri feels the anticipation of them before anything happens. “I’m gonna give you a reward for it.”

And then it happens – Seung-Gil kisses him. It’s too wet, there’s too much tongue and the alcohol’s too heavy on his breath. One of his teeth catches on Yuri’s lower lip. 

Yuri moans. Automatically his hands claw into Seung-Gil’s hair and he can’t help but kiss back. Seung-Gil tastes intoxicating and it’s doing the strangest things to Yuri’s crotch. 

The kiss ends as quickly as it started, not more than three heartbeats. Seung-Gil steps away from Yuri, who’s breathing heavily and for some reason is suddenly the one who has trouble standing upright. “Nighty night”, Seung-Gil mumbles and closes the door, but not without licking his lips and winking at Yuri first.

The sound of the closing door resounds in the empty hallway like a fart in a cathedral. 

Yuri stares at the wood of the door frame, at the golden number 312, until his eyes start to water. He hears his own rapid breathing. His lips prickle and he has the worst boner ever; his heart hammers in Allegretto Appassionata. What the hell just happened?

He can’t go back to his friends, not when he is horny enough he might jump the next willing person he sees. 

“Oh fuck.”

Goddamn, his pants are so tight. Damn this slim fit suit, damn that stupid Seung-Gil. Yuri wiggles out of his jacket and lets it hang loosely over his arm so that he can cover his raging erection. With tentative steps he makes his way back to the elevator and up to his room on the fifth floor. As soon as he’s inside he texts Otabek with an excuse, flings his mobile phone onto the couch, himself onto the bed and opens his belt in a series of jittery movements. 

While he works himself with his shoes still on all he can think of is those blown-wide grey eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to Marika Hackman’s “Cinnamon”


	2. Emil

Michele stretches his long legs and yawns. “I swear to God, Mother Mary and everything that’s holy, if Yuri fucking Plisetsky wins another competition I might strangle him with his medal.”

“Good grief, Mickey, you won silver today. Can’t we celebrate in peace for once?” Sara snatches one of the _Karlovačkos_ out of the cooler, opens it, and passes it to Michele. “Here, drink this, you obviously need it.” She’s lounging in all her tanned glory on the couch with her brother, her legs dragged to her chest, and gifts Emil with a secret wink. 

Emil winks back, and hopes it masks his embarrassing blush. 

“Ugh, I don’t want that Czech dishwater.”

Emil moves to a more comfortable position on the floor. The couch is one of these tiny things you get in your room in middle-class hotels – of course he offered it to Sara and Michele. These two simply can’t be separated. “Hey,” he says. “Don’t you dare mock the drink of the gods.” 

  
  


If he’s being honest, Emil is only mildly offended because Michele is right about that particular brand of beer. It was very hard to find anything else except this. Also, _Starobrno_ , Emil’s favourite, was nowhere to be found here in Marseille. In a weak moment he thought about giving in and buying some Bordeaux instead. 

However, Czech beer parties have been held after every Grand Prix final by tradition, and one cannot just simply break with that just because Marseille is a beer desert. Or because Emil didn’t qualify for this year’s Grand Prix – but these are only minor setbacks and traditions are important. Also, they have ordered a bottle of _Stolichnaya_ , just in case. 

Trying to set a good example, Emil takes a sip from his beer and puts on his best impression of a happy face. “It’s _sooo_ good, Mickey. Don’t you wanna feel it gushing down your throat, tingling your tastebuds?” 

Sara snorts. Spit mixed with beer lands on Emil’s cheek and in Michele’s hair. “Yesssss, drink that beer, Mickey, drink it with passion!” She lets out a fake moan and rolls her eyes just to make Mickey hit her in the ribs. Both of them turn into a giggling mess on the couch, all limbs and pokes and hysterical Italian half-words. 

Emil watches them from the floor and keeps quiet although he’d rather like to just lick all the liquid off Sara’s perfect face and dangerously deep cleavage. In a perfect world, Michele would be next. Maybe Emil would bite his neck first, then push up his shirt to touch his abs. Mickey has great abs; Emil knows from first-hand experience when they used to share a coach, a changing room, and a dorm in junior league. Emil got to know Michele's body extremely well when they used to jerk each other off. 

Despite how glorious those times were, they are a thing of the past.

“Come on, buddy, drink it down,” Emil says and raises his bottle. “You know that you have to do it eventually.”

“Yeah, Mickey. It’s tradition,” Sara adds. She wipes tears and spit off her face. Seeing her so wasted is a delight. Emil will forever treasure the picture of her in that skimpy lilac dress that accompanies her eyes so perfectly. 

It’s a joy to watch Michele swallow the beer with a disgusted face. Sara sucks the rim of her bottle while he drinks, her tiny pink tongue lapping at the foam that sticks to it. Emil thanks the universe they are not paying him any attention, which gives him the chance to very discreetly adjust the seat of his cock. Damn his dirty mind. 

“Second place,” Michele eventually says and sighs. “If it weren’t for that stupid Plisetsky, I would have won. Curse him, curse Nikiforov and curse –”

Sara grabs Michele’s hand. “Stop it. You are great and you know it.”

Although Emil knows it's stupid – they are siblings after all – it stings to see them touch in such a casual way. Sara hasn’t held Emil’s hand since his Junior Year debut. After that, it has only been short hugs, playful shoulder bumps and high fives. That one kiss on his cheek when she had one drink too much and declared him her honorary brother is something Emil would rather wipe from his memory.

“You are too good to me.” Michele gives Sara a look of gratitude, bends forward and whispers something in her ear, never letting go of her hand. Sara chuckles and blushes. Her long fingers caress Mickey’s as if it was accidental. Maybe she thinks Emil won’t notice but she has yet to truly understand that he’s very talented at hiding his true feelings behind a gentle smile. 

What comes next has been tradition for several years as well. 

“Wow, I’m tired,” Sara says, followed by a yawn. Then she knocks the rest of her beer back in one and exhales noisily. “Mickey, can you take me back to my room?”

“Gladly so.” Michele is quick to jump up and finish his beer. He pats Emil on the head, which makes Emil feel like a inbred lap dog: cute, but not someone to take serious. “See you at breakfast, buddy?” At least Michele has the decency to look and sound apologizing.

“Sure,” Emil says, puts on an indifferent face and watches them gather their belongings. “See you tomorrow.” _Have fun_.

That they don’t look back when leaving is strangely comforting; at least that way they won’t see his longing gaze. It’s better that way. Still, Emil’s chest is tight. He doesn’t have to sneak after his two best friends to know what’s going to happen in their room, where nobody can see them do what they always do after one of them wins. Where they don’t invite him, ever. 

He sighs loudly as soon as the door closes behind them and puts his bottle down. His cock is half-hard and in a weird position yet again; his legs have gone to sleep because of his place on the floor. When he tries to get up, he almost falls down and has to steady himself by leaning against the couch that still oozes Sara’s perfume. The sting in his legs distracts him from what is as crystal clear as Lake Milada: He’s so, so fucked.

Also, there’s still so much beer left. He could finish all of it himself. Or he could call for help. 

***

“Well, it’s obvious you’re a nutcase, but we knew that already,” Chris says and takes a sip of vodka right out of the bottle. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins when Emil protests half-heartedly. It’s because that’s what Chris does: he tells the truth, he drinks, and he _knows things_. “Tell me again: how long have you been pining over them?”

“Far too long, if you ask me.” Emil won’t touch that Stoli with a stick, he only bought it for Michele, who likes the taste of rubbing alcohol more than the one of Czech beer. Also, in contrast to Chris, Emil hasn’t been friends with Viktor booze hound Nikiforov for years, so beer it is for him. There’s still a shitload of it left. Maybe he’ll just forget it in the lobby or gift it to the cute receptionist when he leaves tomorrow.

“Far too long indeed. You haven’t stopped talking about them since I got to know you,” Chris says. “Listen to your elders; it’s not healthy for such a young man to only focus on such a small amount of people. Spread your seed, have fun –”

“Chris, no.” Emil covers his eyes but still can’t help laughing because the thought of Chris hurling used condoms into a crowd of handsome young men is just too hilarious. “Tell me again, why are you in Marseille again? Not that I’m complaining.” 

“Oh, that’s a clever distracting strategy. You know very well retirement won’t keep me away of any Grand Prix final banquet, ever.” Chris wraps his black silken night robe around his still toned body. “These banquets have been _wild_ since that thing with Yuuri. You never know what’ll happen.”

“What was it this time? Did someone pole dance? Did _you_ pole dance?” Chris’s calves are insane, so he must still be practicing. 

Chris makes sure to drink very slowly before he answers. “Sadly enough I didn’t. But Yuri Plisetsky showed some genuine sympathy for Minami. He left with Seung-Gil. God, that guy was drunk, unbelievable. He could hardly walk, can you imagine? _Emille_ , be a good boy and drink some more, will you?” Chris takes another sip of vodka.

Bless Chris, his urge to gossip and his iron stomach. At least someone will finish the hard liquor. “I was hoping for something more juicy,” Emil says while he fixes himself another beer. “Some scandals, maybe.”

“Well… the only scandal is that _you_ didn’t qualify this season. People talk, Emil. What is going on?” Chris is in full gossip absorption mode, his eyes glisten and he leans forward to hear every word Emil might utter in the next few minutes. It wouldn’t be surprising if he’d just switched on a tape recorder to get everything word by word. 

Emil has to weigh his words carefully now, so he hides behind his beer. Now, in retirement, Chris is not only a talk show host on Swiss national TV but also one of the worst gossips the world of Twitter and Instagram has ever seen. When Viktor and Yuuri told him about their wedding date, he blew it – and the super secret location – only minutes after. Apparently there were so many journalists that they had to hire security to keep them off the venue. Not that Emil is interested in gossip in any way. Or follows Chris’s twitter account. 

“I lost my mojo,” Emil says because that’s safe. He can tell Chris as much, because anyone who watched him trying to perform this season will have noticed anyway. The last season was rough, especially because he had so much to do with the Red Bull sponsorship deal for his YouTube Channel. All the biking, skiing and skydiving kept him busy. “I don’t know… Things just didn’t work out, I guess. I didn’t have the head to focus on figure skating.” 

“You need a night with someone who takes good care of you,” Chris says and winks at Emil. “My offer from Kitzbühl still stands, you know.”

Emil curses his body, but his ears start burning instantly. Apparently, Chris hasn’t lost any of his sex appeal since they last met. “Sadly, sex is not the solution for every problem. Also, no offense, but you’re not really my type.” Chris is hot, objectively speaking, but he’s neither Italian nor purple-eyed.

“None taken.” Chris pats Emil’s knee before he turns his attention to his vodka again. “And let me tell you, you’re only refusing me because you’ve never tried solving your problems with mindless sex.” He winks. “I could even speak _italiano_ , if you like.”

Emil laughs, raises his bottle and cheers. “I bet you could.” He is in the perfect know about Chris’ coping mechanisms, maybe also due to the fact that Chris is not shy about sharing his everything about his life online. The whole world and their grandmother know he is in a a happy polyamorous relationship with Max. If the rumours and Chris’s hints are true, they might have a secret poly thing with one of the Russians going. Following Chris on Twitter is worse than watching Grey’s Anatomy and trying to keep up with who is currently sleeping with whom. Emil is more invested in that stupid show and Chris’s love life than he’d ever publicly admit.

His own social media accounts overflow with pictures of him doing extreme skiing, paragliding or downhill biking. In most of them he’s in some godforsaken part of the world, caked in dirt, only his eyes and his teeth standing out in his face. He likes these pictures a lot. He looks _alive_ in them, happy even. 

Figure skating competitions and the pictures which come out of them, however, are different. The fancy costumes are still great and he loves the music and the feeling of pushing his body to the limit. 

However, his coach Danek is not wrong when he calls his skating dull during practice. It’s as hard for him to criticise Emil as it is for Emil to listen to him but he knows it’s at least partly true. It’s a miracle Dabek hasn't quit as his coach yet and looked for a more dedicated skater, one that gives his heart and soul for the sport. Someone like Kenjirou Minami, probably. Most likely it’s only Danek’s sense of loyalty that makes him stay.

There's no need to share any of this with Chris. 

“So you won’t take my offer?”, Chris asks. 

“Well... probably not.”

Chris chuckles a laugh. “Yeah, it won’t solve your underlying problems, I guess. But it might be worth a try to soothe that itch you feel. Just saying.”

***

Back in Brno, training under Danek’s watchful eyes, Emil’s days consist of practicing the first part of his new free program. The scratching of the blades on the ice and the chatter of his rinkmates still calm his nerves; figure skating has been his safe haven for more than a decade. He knows exactly what to do and how to do it.

It’s also boring him to death. 

“Emil, put in more feeling, more passion, please!” Danek shouts from the side of the rink for the approximately the quadrillionth time today. His voice is relaxed as always, only the volume gives away his impatience. That, and his messed-up hair. Emil suspects he’s not sleeping well. It’s not surprising at all. 

Had someone asked him a few years before, Emil would have said he thought Danek’s best feature was his patience. With a coach so relaxed and put together, Emil was never frightened before competitions like the other skaters. Excited to compete, yes, but never nervous. 

Now, he doesn’t want to be kindly asked to do something. He desperately wants to be scolded, shouted at, maybe even called names. Mickey’s coach always shouts at him, gesticulating like a true Sicilian madwoman while she does so. Once, Mickey told Emil, she even threw an empty water bottle at him. He snatched it out of the air and sent it right back to her. Apparently, they laughed about it afterwards. Maybe these fights make Mickey’s skating so passionate. 

Can you really be passionate about anything when doing it is like swallowing a sip of flat tap water?

“ _Please_ , Emil.” Danek sounds more desperate this time.

Emil realises he’s stopped in the middle of the ice, spacing out. Two of the juniors are watching him. They are quietly whispering, but it’s easy to hear them calling his behaviour _weird_. He can’t blame them.

“Sorry.” An apologetic look won’t do the trick this time, so Emil grits his teeth, adjusts his posture and suffers through the last minutes of the seemingly never-ending training session. He really doesn’t want to anger Danek – this man has been with him since he decided to leave Italy and move closer to his family, has been supportive of the whole extreme sports thing and always tries his best to motivate Emil, no matter what. It’s not his fault everything sucks. 

When Danek lets him go, Emil basically jumps out of his skates and into his worn-out All Stars. He's planning on down-hill biking with his friends in Netroufalky in the evening and holding a family-night after that. Mum’s making her infamous _gulas_ and dad is coming as well, having a night off of the hospital for once. No way he’s is wasting any more time here. Not when he–

All the pieces finally fall into place when Emil steps outside of the rink and into the parking lot. It’s a beautiful early spring day, the blackbirds are singing. The temperatures have been rising constantly in the last few weeks. There is not a single cloud in the sky, only a few jet trails cut the horizon into bright blue rectangles. It’s gonna be gorgeous in the woods later.

Honestly, anywhere is better than here. 

“I’m not sure I still want to be a figure skater any longer,” Emil murmurs. It feels strangely satisfying to say it out loud. 

But what now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emil is a good bean <3


	3. Yuri

As he slides over the ice Yuri has to suppress a groan. Carefully, very carefully, he skates a large figure eight to warm up and almost can’t hold in the sound.

Viktor watches him from the other side of the rink, the golden blades of his skates winking in the harsh light of the rink. “Yurio, did you pull a muscle yesterday at training?”

“Everything’s fucking dandy,” Yuri lies. What should he say instead? _No jumps today please, I have been wanking myself sore because of Seung-Fucking-Gil?_

He’s glad Viktor is too busy being delighted about his music choice for Yuri’s free program to comment on the obvious – namely that Yuri is not well and also obsessed with a certain Korean skater. But he just bites his tongue and pretends to listen to Viktor’s babbling. “You have to reinvent yourself after this season. Winning gold is fine but when the judges and the audience get bored, you’re dead.” He accompanies his words by putting his index finger to his lips. “ _Dead_. You don’t wanna be dead.”

Yuri snorts and skates over to where Viktor’s putting in a CD. “And that’s why you dumped the post-rock I suggested and picked some classical shit again?” 

Ignore mode is obviously on. “Don’t assume I picked ‘shit’ before you’ve listened to it.” Viktor smiles and presses the play button. 

Immediately Yuri has to suppress an unimpressed yawn. The music is boring as fuck but that’s not surprising – it’s the stupid Moonlight Sonata. “It’s the stupid Moonlight Sonata,” he says. His face feels hotter with every chord. “A million skaters have already skated to this shit. The judges will fall asleep during the first bar.”

“Cutting off your hair and getting a few hundred piercings didn’t erase everything you’ve been working for all these years.” Viktor gracefully ignores Yuri’s raised eyebrow. “You’re known for your ballet moves – use them. Save the post-rock for the gala and believe me, this song is great. Wait for it… wait…”

And then it starts. It’s still the same boring song Yuri has suffered through numerous times since he started skating, but it is also something else. The beat speeds up and there is something electric added to the mix. Is it turning into synthwave? Yuri’s toes start wiggling in his skates before he can stop himself from doing so.

“You like it,” says Viktor, the smile curving his lips distinctly smug.

The song ends with an allegretto that makes Yuri wanna jump and spin and just _glide_.

“It’s not that bad.” 

Viktor switches off the hi-fi, still smiling. “I’ll show you what I have in mind for your new program then, okay?” 

The step combination Viktor skates with practiced elegance looks manageable, albeit exhausting. The start of every free program seems to be like this, Yuri muses, showing off your body and how beautiful it can look on the ice. And Viktor is still beautiful even after retiring, he has to give him that much. His golden blades flash when he turns into a spread eagle, raises his arms and bends backward in a perfect arch that should be impossible for someone over thirty.

And then the realization hits Yuri like a sledgehammer with rocket propulsion. This is similar to the last bit of Seung-Gil’s free program from last season. 

_Fuck_. 

He knows he should be watching Viktor closely to remember all the elements, he might get quizzed on them later (and Viktor could even be in a particularly sadistic mood and make him repeat them in French, English, Russian and Japanese, just because he’s the almighty Coach and can make Yuri do almost anything.) But he can’t focus. It’s impossible. 

If he doesn’t find a solution for his problem – that problem being Seung-Gil – soon, he’s fucked. Since the kiss Yuri’s mind constantly wanders back to the moment their lips locked, to  
Seung-Gil’s tongue teasing his, to Seung-Gil’s fingers raking through his hair, to the sounds he made when – 

_Stop right there, asshole_. Yuri can’t follow this thought now or he’ll have to explain to Viktor Dipshit Nikiforov why he’s sporting a two-person tent in his sweatpants. It’s been _months_ , for God’s sake. It’s horrible. But he can’t deny the fact that he wants nothing more than to mine the depths of Seung-Gil’s tight, perfect ass. 

“Your face is all red,” Viktor says, stopping in front of him and taking off his glove. “Do you have a fever?”

Before he’s able to feel his forehead Yuri pushes away Viktor’s hand. “I told you, I’m fine, idiot,” he hisses while simultaneously calling up a mental image of the bleary-eyed Prime Minister Medvedev to calm himself down. “I have to piss.”

“No need to get all aggressive!” Viktor says in a honeyed voice that speaks of a hundred decline push-ups in the gym later. Yuri gives him the finger. 

Thank fuck nobody’s there when he stumbles into the toilet, then closes the door of one of the stalls with trembling fingers and shoves his right hand into his sweatpants. Everything is ready to go. Yuri only feels ashamed for a second, then he gets to work. 

Afterwards he washes his hands as thoroughly as if he was going to perform brain surgery. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he’s hollow-eyed, his hair tousled and oily – it was too late to take a proper shower after yesterday’s wanking session. Yuri warily smells the fingers of his right hand to make sure they don’t smell of come anymore and snorts a single laugh. The whole situation is so ridiculous and yet so sad.

Oh God. He needs help. 

***

Mila leans forward until her left eye occupies the whole video frame. “Seung-Gil Lee? Why him, of all people? Can’t you obsess over someone more available? He hates social media as much as Otabek. Besides, have you seen his eyebrows?”

If this was anyone except his best friend and honorary big sister, Yuri would be pissed. “I have no fucking idea why I’m obsessing over him,” he sighs, head in his hands. Listening to himself admit it is even more painful than his muscles the day after one of Yuuri’s training sessions. “I think I’ve actually gone insane. I mean, wanking is one thing –”

“Yeah, about that... What you told me sounds more like self-mutilation. Especially as you have been doing it since December.”

Yuri lets out a wordless noise of desperation. It’s the end of March. Goddamnit, if anyone except Mila finds out he’s using all his unoccupied days – hours, minutes, toilet breaks! – for daydreams and masturbation, he’s going to be taken to a psychiatric hospital. There he’ll be fighting for mouldy bread crusts and jam-sweetened tea, but only if they don’t secure him to his bed and force-feed him instead. “Aaaaargh”, he says.

“Calm down, Yura.” Mila leans back, her lips curving in amusement. “Yeah, your behaviour is kinda…okay, really fucking weird, but I don’t think you’re sick.”

“But what is it then?”

“I don’t wanna speculate too much and I also know you don’t wanna hear it. But I think you might be in love. Or outright obsessed, at least.”

What starts as giggling turns into hysterical laughter when Yuri tries and fails to suppress it. Before long his eyes are streaming and he’s holding his burning sides while Mila watches him with a completely indifferent expression she surely picked up from Otabek. Which just makes Yuri giggle even more.

“That’s bullshit,” he wheezes when he’s done. “In love? Come on!”

“Stranger things have happened. And honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised. The way you describe that night it must have been an epiphany.” 

“NO!” Yuri’s voice cracks. “It was shitty! And that’s what I really don’t get – it wasn’t even nice! And. Still. I. fucking. Can’t. Stop. Wanking! Goddamnit!” Those grey eyes, it must have been those grey eyes which he’s only once seen up close, and still he could describe every goddamn fleck of his irises. And Seung-Gil’s soft fingers, his hair, and – 

“Yura. Stop pulling your hair and calm down. Yeah, like that. Deep breaths. Take it easy. It was only a question of time until it hit you.”

“And now?” He must look very desperate because Mila’s expression softens in a way it rarely does.

“Well, I’m gonna think about how you can meet him again.”

***

There are many things that Yuri’s come to understand over the course of the years. Otabek’s love for baking and decorating cupcakes sounded strange at first but after eating the first of his creations Yuri no longer cared. Meek and chubby Yuuri Katsuki ploughing Viktor’s ass, making him scream every night? Not that Yuri had wanted to know or even _imagine_ , hell no. But living under a roof with those two lovesick idiots taught him to believe even the unbelievable.

However, that Seung-Gil is the secret host of even-more-secret parties sounds too fucking weird to be true. 

“Why have I never heard this before?” 

“Well, because it’s super secret, dummy.” Mila’s is cleaning her fingernails with a very sharp-looking switchblade. “And only a few very rich, very influential people know about these parties.” 

Apparently they take place every year just before the important figure skating events in his family’s estate. 

And, as far as Yuri can tell, Mila plans to smuggle him in. 

He is mostly convinced that his best friend has made the whole story up to stop him from getting calluses on his dick. But still, he can’t stop himself from drinking in every little piece of information Mila offers him.

“My source sang like a bird when I told him what was at stake. According to him, Seung-Gil’s host name is Black Husky.” She chuckles. “How lame.” 

_What the fuck_. “You’re kidding me, right?” Yuri says and raises an eyebrow.

“Phichit told me and because he also told me he’s been a guest at these parties for years, I believe him. He also swore by the eyesight of his unborn children it was true.”

“The only children he’ll ever have are hamsters.” That Phichit will ever father any kids seems highly unlikely to Yuri. Minami will win gold before that happens. “Wait a second… _Phichit Chulanont_ is your fucking source?”

“Yuri, please, you look as if you’re going to pop a blood vessel. It was necessary!” She raises her hands in half-hearted defense.

“I’m gonna murder you. In your sleep. Slowly. And I’ll torture you first.”

“You’re so scary when you’re mad,” says Mila, not looking scared at all. She reminds Yuri of a mafia boss; the knife heightens this feeling. “But rest assured, he owes me one. I made him swear an oath of discretion – and I have the pictures to make sure he keeps it.”

***

The air in Seoul is warm and humid despite autumn being close. Yuri wipes sticky sweat off his forehead and hopes that Phichit won’t notice how hot he is. Wearing a grey shirt for his flight from Moscow wasn’t his brightest idea: the armpits started to darken distinctly as soon as he stepped out of the plane. But how was he supposed to know how warm it could get this time of the year on the other side of the globe? In St. Petersburg he would be wearing a coat by now. 

Phichit seems to be immune to all kinds of heat and greets him with a kiss on the cheek when Yuri meets him outside the airport. He’s wearing a glittery tank top and the shortest jeans shorts Yuri has ever seen a human being wearing outside of a club. “Yuuuuri, so good to see you! Do you need help with your luggage?”

“I can manage. I only have a rucksack anyway.” Yuri doesn’t like Phichit very much, he never did. Too much fake friendliness, too much drama, too many Instagram followers. But when this guy is a means to an end he can make small talk and smile for an evening. “How are the preparations for your ice show going?” Briefed by Mila, he knows exactly what he has to say to keep his human entrance ticket entertained. Or at least he hopes so.

Phichit babbles all the way to the taxi and then all through the journey to the hotel. Yuri has been living with Viktor and Minami for years so his nerves are steeled and his ears don’t start bleeding immediately. Sometimes he nods affirmatively, sometimes he forces himself to smile and adds a “Really?” to the mix. Phichit appears to be buying his act completely. 

With a smug grin Yuri follows Phichit, who’s dragging a giant golden suitcase, through the hotel lobby. What might be hidden inside it? Yuri has only brought the necessities in his rucksack - underwear, socks, his combat boots (200 dollars), the artistically ripped black shirt (350 dollars), his black leather pants (570 dollars), condoms and lube (five and six dollars respectively). Oh, and the limited edition buttplug (invaluable) he has been imagining pushing inside Seung-Gil’s bubble butt so often. 

Before he can get lost in this thought, Phichit turns around and stares at him with his head tilted, eyes narrowed. “I know exactly why you’re here. I’m only doing this for Mila and our… arrangement.” His cheeks turn pink and suddenly Yuri wants to know exactly what pictures Mila has of him. “Don’t mess this up, you little shit.” 

Yuri stares at him in amazement. Phichit is more than one head shorter than him. 

The irony of the situation is lost on Phichit. “These parties are important to me, Plisetsky. I swear to you, I’ll end you if you do something stupid.”

By now, the air seems a few degrees colder and it’s not only because of the blaring AC. The mask has shifted and presents another aspect of Phichit, an aspect that might chase Yuri into his nightmares. He swallows and nods slowly. 

Phichit smiles, all teeth. “It’s good we’re on the same page. Put on your best party clothes. If you don’t have anything suitable with you,” the scornful look he throws at Yuri’s current clothing speaks volumes, “I can lend you some things. Do you need eyeliner?”

***

Yuri isn’t sure how comfortable he feels. Phichit didn’t allow him the black shirt but put him into an equally black designer top he produced from his golden suitcase. Two separate pieces of fabric cover Yuri’s chest and back, connected by thin silver chains over his shoulders and across his sides. Because it’s so short, it allows a nice view of Yuri’s abs. It is nothing he’d ever have chosen for himself, but when Phichit makes him do a turn in front of his gigantic hotel room mirror he has to admit out loud that it looks kinda okay. (This is a blatant lie. It’s actually awesome even though it defies the laws of physics and probably shouldn’t exist in this dimension.) 

Phichit was happy with the leather pants and the military boots. He is also very content with his own make-up artist skills and admires Yuri – his magnum opus – and the winged eyeliner he gave him. “You look pretty.”

“Thank you.” Yuri thinks Phichit has overdone the eyeliner. His eyes look insanely huge and there is too much glitter on his eyelids. Not that he’d ever say anything. He’s still not sure Phichit isn’t a serial killer who hides his diabolical side behind a sweet smile and a soft voice. 

Instead he examines himself in the rearview mirror from the back seat of the taxi that will take him to the party. A short laugh escapes his lips when he sees a scared creature staring back at him that only faintly reminds him of Yuri Nikolayevich Plisetsky. He’s tense all over and his fingers are trembling, so he fiddles with his labret piercing to try to calm down. The fake fur and leather coat Phichit lent him is too tight around the shoulders. He’s sweating as if he’s wearing a plastic bag and still his limbs feel frozen.

Phichit isn’t looking at him. “Please turn left here and follow the road for another two miles.” He’s dressed in patent leather from head to toe and he smells like a cologne factory. 

They say nothing else during the drive. Yuri looks out of the window and watches mansion after mansion go by in the near-darkness, each building bigger than the last. He bites his bottom lip and tells himself to breathe. 

“Here we are,” says the driver. 

While Phichit pays him, Yuri gets out of the car. He stares and swallows and then stares some more. “Fuck.” This house cannot be called a house, it’s a fucking palace. Viktor’s villa is a shabby shack compared to this magnificent building with its whitewashed walls, three floors and a garden that looks more like a park. 

“Seung-Gil’s parents are media moguls,” Phichit explains cheerfully. “It’s nice inside. Although I’ve seen nicer houses, to be honest.”

Yuri, who was raised in a one-bedroom hole in Domodedovo, makes a face. Although it’s a warm evening he wraps himself in his coat, and follows Phichit across the gravelled parking place to the main entrance, no, the fucking main portal, completely with statues of angry old men in togas and fake Greek pillars. A gargantuan bouncer with a scar on his left cheek who looks as if he was imported from Moscow’s underworld checks the faces and IDs of the patiently waiting party guests. The queue seems endless and unmoving. 

Yuri can feel the bass booming from the inside. He can also feel Phichit’s hot breath against his ear. “Think about what I told you. I want to come here next year and all the years that follow.” It sounds a little threatening. 

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Understood. Promise.”

As soon as they’ve entered the entrance hall, Phichit vanishes in a sea of tastefully dressed partygoers without looking back. Yuri is not surprised – they have this silent agreement that they won’t return to the hotel together. As they don’t really like each other and most likely never will, Yuri is glad that there is no need to pretend anymore. He hands over the coat to the wardrobe supervisor, who gives him a token Yuri stuffs deep into the pocket of his leather pants. Hopefully he won’t get too wasted to pick it up again later.

Then he steps forward and lets the crowd pull him deeper inside, through the hall with its marble statues, the fancy Persian carpets and the golden fountain, closer to the source of the booming music. There seem to be couples making out in every dark corner, sometimes three or more, all of them young and pretty and strangers to him. Some of them are eyeing him with interest, but that’s not what he wants right now. His blond mop of hair surely sticks out like a beacon, and maybe, he hopes, Seung-Gil will see it and remember. 

Snatching canapés from a silver tray and stuffing them into his mouth, he turns a corner and finally sees the dance floor. Masses of people are moving to the music in rhythmic, ecstatic movements. The beat instantly jumps through Yuri’s limbs. His grandpa told him more than once he was born to dance, and he’s never been able to be still when there’s music playing.

His arrival divides the dancers like Moses divided the Red Sea until a wave of convulsive movements and limbs swallows him whole. Yuri lets go and just drifts, enjoying the sensation of his body moving on its own, floating on the music, the rhythm behind his ribs. He almost forgets why he’s here.

Almost.

Suddenly Seung-Gil appears next to him, moves into his space, rubs his body against Yuri’s with bedroom eyes and parted lips that glisten in the stroboscope light. He wraps his arms around Yuri’s neck, draws him closer. His sweet scent – some kind of expensive perfume Yuri is quite sure Coach Yuuri owns too but smells like toilet spray on him – tickles Yuri’s nose. His pants feel tight. 

The song ends and a new one starts. Seung-Gil lets go of Yuri and moves next to him, his impossibly tight shirt moving upwards, the sudden peek at his abs giving Yuri the urge to drop to his knees and put his mouth there. He feels drunk on Seung-Gil’s presence alone, on the way he moves. He’s so beautiful that it hurts. 

_I want him_.

Yuri blinks when Seung-Gil vanishes behind a group of dancers with a smile on his lips, like something out of a fairy tale. 

  
  


“What –” Yuri staggers off the floor and almost knocks a waiter over. He grabs a glass of a disgustingly colourful cocktail from the tray the man carries and gulps it down before he can think about what he is consuming. The alcohol hits his stomach and leaves a crater of epic proportions that will most likely only be filled by another, equally disgusting cocktail. With a grunt Yuri puts the glass back onto the tray and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

The waiter grins. He’s cute, has a slender build and if Yuri squints hard he might even look a bit like Seung-Gil. Yuri grins back and tilts his head. “Hey.”

And that’s all it takes. Moaning and kisses and cold fingers on his skin. Yuri’s drunk and touches the other man in a dark corner just like he’d touch Seung-Gil, if that bastard was here. Behind a floor-length curtain he opens the man’s dress pants. The ersatz Seung-Gil sighs when Yuri licks his lips and into the man’s mouth, closes his eyes, his brows knitted in ecstasy. 

Afterwards, Yuri wipes his hands on the curtains, kisses the waiter on the cheek and goes hunting. But Seung-Gil stays hidden. So Yuri drinks, and dances, and drinks even more. 

At five in the morning on the stairs to the main entrance Yuri finds someone in an equal state of drunkenness, who even gifts him a cigarette. Taehyung is related to Seung-Gil in a way that Yuri cannot really grasp in his current state. “So, you’re his cousin twice removed? What?” He inhales deeply and immediately regrets it. 

Once Yuri has finished coughing, Taehyung clarifies his relationship with Seung-Gil – “Thrice removed. Thrice, it’s important, bro”. 

Then Taehyung suddenly notices Yuri has blond hair, which leads to a discussion on the difference between Asian and Caucasian hair structure that leaves Yuri in fits. “I envy you. You can do craaaazy things to your hair!” Minami and his ridiculously coloured mane is a perfect example. “I wish I could. Mine is just… Bleh.”

“Aren’t you an ice dancer?”

“Figure skater!”

“Sorry man, I didn’t wanna make you mad. But you folks can’t colour your hair anyway, right?” Taehyung obviously has no real idea how the figure skating world works. He slurs his words and has a very strong accent. It would be hard to understand even if Yuri wasn’t so tired that if he lay down here he’d probably sleep till spring. 

“Hm.”

Taehyung seems happy enough with Yuri’s not-really-an answer. “Hey, are you a friend of my cousin?”

“Yeah,” Yuri lies. “I was hoping to… talk to him. But he vanished. Like… Poof!” 

They snicker. 

“Yeah, he does that. He’s gone home, I guess, he usually leaves when things really kick off.”

And it has ‘kicked off’, that much Yuri can remember. “He owns a fucking house?” But why wouldn’t he? It seems as if Seung-Gil is obscenely rich. 

“Yeah, in Gangnam.” Taehyung recites the address and immediately starts complaining that his family has no money to buy him even a flat there. Yuri is only half-listening while he desperately tries to remember the name of the street. After hastily finishing his cigarette, he mutters an excuse and leaves.

Half an hour later, a taxi drops him off in a very rich-looking area. Transplanted here in leather outfit and borrowed coat, Yuri must look completely out of place. Googling Seung-Gil’s name in Korean and trying to match it up with the characters on the nameplates is a good way of distracting himself; in the meantime dawn is breaking and the first early birds start tweeting in the trees. Yuri’s head spins and he’s feeling sick. Is it because he’s still drunk or because he’s behaving like a complete stalker?

In the end he finds the right house and his legs abruptly turn to jelly. He presses the doorbell. The security camera mounted on the high metal fence whirrs. Yuri holds his breath until the door opens, then exhales audibly.

He tries not to stagger too much as he walks along the cobbled path that leads to Seung-Gil’s door, to Seung-Gil himself, who is most likely watching his every move through a gap in the curtains. The stairs up to the entrance prove to be a real challenge but somehow Yuri manages. He also manages to comb through his hair with his fingers, and to not vomit all over the step. A dog barks. Then a figure becomes visible behind the frosted glass door.

It opens to reveal Seung-Gil, dressed in a black satin robe. His hair looks wet, like he’s just taken a shower. “What do you want?” There’s another question, unsaid. _How on earth did you find me?_

Yuri has expected something else, especially after their sensual dance earlier that night. “See you?” he tries and beams at Seung-Gil, whose face is as expressionless as Coach Yuuri’s precious china dolls, all black eyes and mouth a pale streak. 

“Why?”

How should Yuri explain? He can’t tell the truth, it would be too embarrassing. “You kissed me. After the last Grand Prix banquet.” _And it turned my world upside down. I’m obsessed with you._

Seung-Gil frowns. “I don’t remember. But yeah, I tend to kiss people when I’m drunk.”

_People?_ Yuri hopes that years of playing durak with his grandpa have made him able to hide his sudden horror. 

“Oh, did you misinterpret things? I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean anything. It just seemed like I owed you,” Seung-Gil says, moving to close the door. 

But Yuri didn’t come all the way to Seoul to be put off so easily. “We also danced. Tonight.” He takes a step forward, right into Seung-Gil’s comfort zone. He’s powered by alcohol and desperation; this dance couldn’t have been some weird sort of misunderstanding, it was something more, something intimate. 

Seung-Gil smells of expensive shower gel and rose petals. He is so beautiful that Yuri wants to grab him and slam him against the nearest wall. But he can’t do that – yet – so he reaches out and, shoves Seung-Gil’s arms aside and puts his hands around Seung-Gil’s hips. “It was nice. I thought we’d –”

“You thought what?” Seung-Gil stares at him, not moving a single muscle and still completely in control of the situation. “Oh, do you want a relationship with me?”

Yuri can’t hide his joy. He isn’t sure whether to blame the alcohol or Seung-Gil himself. He wants him, now, on the floor, somewhere, maybe outside, where anyone can hear him moan and scream while he writhes beneath the force of Yuri’s hungry kisses. “I thought…” Well, what did he fucking think? Maybe it’s true that intense wanking leads to brain damage. With unsteady movements he caresses Seung-Gil’s hipbones through the silken fabric of the robe. 

Seung-Gil lets him. “Tell me something, anything, that we have in common.” His voice is like steel.

And reality rams Yuri in the face again. He knows that he has to answer, Seung-Gil is clearly waiting. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything, then he closes it again. 

“See… How do you think this would work? You don’t even know me.” 

“But we could change that,” Yuri mumbles and tries to mask the desperation in his voice by rubbing his dick against Seung-Gil’s thigh. He moans. His fantasies are so satisfying because they might actually become real: Seung-Gil, on all fours, presenting his ass, looking back over his shoulder with hooded eyes,Yuri pulling out the butt plug agonizingly slow, so that he has perfect access to his gaping –

“I don’t think I’m interested in that – or in you. Not now and not in the near future.” Seung-Gil takes a step back. 

The lack of bodily warmth makes Yuri wince. “But you don’t know me, you don’t know me. You’d like me if you got to know me.” He wants to get nearer to Seung-Gil, feel his skin, smell his scent. “I just know that you’d like me.”

Seung-Gil makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a snort. “Once again, you idiot: we have nothing in common. Just because we danced and I kissed you once doesn’t mean that I want anything from you. This isn’t a Nikiforov-Katsuki fairy tale.” With this Seung-Gil pushes Yuri away and has slammed the door before Yuri can do anything about it. It makes the dog start barking again.

“But it _could_ be one,” Yuri shouts at the closed door, his heart hammering in his chest, everything feeling tight, so fucking tight. 

“Fuck off, Plisetsky.” 

Footsteps, retreating. The dog stops barking. Silence.

Yuri doesn’t fuck off. As all his strength leaves his body, he sinks down onto the steps with a sigh and stares at the floor. And he feels his lovesick heart burst into a million little pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to Marika Hackman’s “Drown”


	4. Emil

Questions zap through Emil's brain as he slithers down the forest trail, regretting his life choices. Why didn't he listen to Danek? Why didn't he go to training? Why did he do this _today_ , after an autumn rain shower when everything is slippery? 

How it happened and why he cannot say, but he knows it hurts like the seventh circle of hell when he falls off his bike and crashes to the ground. He feels something rupture in his foot that is most certainly _not_ supposed to rupture. 

Gasping, he pushes himself into an upright position with his left hand. It’s fascinating to watch the blood drip off his hands onto the wet leaves. He tries to move the fingers of his right. Two of them protrude at a strange angle, and he knows that when he dares to touch them he’ll most likely instantly die. They must be dislocated. Again. 

Shit. Thanks to his protective clothing and helmet, the rest of him seems to be okay, apart from some scratches on his legs. Danek is gonna kill him if he dares to show up at the rink with another bruise he can’t cover up even with the strongest make-up. The thought of his trainer huffing makes him giggle in a high-pitched voice. He’s close to losing his shit. 

“Emil, are you okay?!”

Oh. He totally forgot about Kveta. Emil wants to turn around to where her voice came from, to calm her down. He moves too fast and the pain shoots into his left leg as if someone had pushed a blazing knife into his tendons. Out of reflex he touches his foot with his right hand and moves the dislocated fingers. Then he screams.

Cursing, Kveta jumps off her bike, runs towards him and kneels down like the nurse she is. Her sweaty face is focused and professionally calm although her green eyes give away how worried she is, even after all the years working in the emergency room. Blonde locks stick to her forehead. “Let me see.”

“Fuck,” Emil hisses through gritted teeth as she turns his hand around to look at his fingers and then moves his other leg to get a better view of his foot. “I think it’s broken.”

  
  


Tenderly, she touches the already swollen ankle and he roars like a pig being slaughtered. The good thing is that it hurts so much that resetting his fingers is only marginally worse. 

Kveta ignores his pathetic sobbing and turns back to the ankle. “Maybe it’s broken, or it’s the tendon. Goddammit, Emil, did you have to go that fast?” 

Only a few minutes ago she fired his ambition by calling him a slowpoke. Emil decides not to comment on it. “Is… is the GoPro okay?” It’s not on his helmet any more.

“Are you _insane_? Who cares about the fucking GoPro? I have to get help!” she hisses and gets up. 

“Red Bull cares!” Emil shouts after her as she vanishes in the bushes, cursing, searching for reception. He hopes his camera is alright, and also that Kveta has everything on hers so that she can cut the best scenes and make a perfect video out of them later. 

Emil’s fans love accidents. Every time he crashes, his follower numbers shoot up significantly. After the gaping wound he got on _Großglockner_ , Kveta has been joking that he has only been picking the most dangerous paths and trails since Red Bull asked for a collaboration. _We could make the next big thing out of it. Breaking bones with Emil. Don’t tell me you don’t like it_. 

It sounds crazy but his best friend is right. It is fun to chase the adrenaline through his body and feel how the fear – the nervousness? the challenge? – gets him to do things he’s never even dreamed of; a few years ago his biggest kick was to land a difficult jump. When he survives what should objectively kill him it’s a damn good feeling; watching himself on video later fills him with unbridled joy. 

At this moment however, he just wants to cry. How is he supposed to explain to Danek that he’s injured again, this time in a way that might end this season before it has even really started? 

Yes, he has scored respectably in the first events, which is kind of impressive when considering his nonexistent motivation. “Years of training and muscle memory are not erased easily.” Chris knows what he’s talking about. And yes, somehow the whole ice skating circus is still part of Emil’s life. 

But now he has to prepare himself for the fact that he’s gonna follow this season from the spectator area – again. 

***

The ruptured tendon in his left foot equals to one week of bed rest and no training for six weeks. Emil can’t remember the last time he hasn’t done anything for six hours when he was awake.

Next to his bed, Danek sits in a cheap plastic chair, staring holes into the wall behind Emil’s head. For the first time of his life Emil feels uneasy in the company of his coach. His palms are wet; he wipes them on the bright white hospital sheets and tries to smile. 

“ _Why_ , Emil?” Danek closes his eyes and sighs so deeply that Emil immediately wants to jump out of the bed to cower in front of his feet and beg for his forgiveness. It’s impossible because his foot is in a cast and because Danek looks as if he’d like to add some bruises to Emil’s already black legs and arms if he says something stupid. 

“I’m so sorry,” Emil mumbles, mouth dry. “Really, I –”

With an unusually harsh gesture Danek makes him shut his mouth. “I saw the video.”

“Oh.” It’s getting harder to look into Danek’s eyes, not when he looks so genuinely hurt. Since when does he follow Emil’s account and has he really already seen the video? Kveta has only put it online this morning because Emil asked her to. Has Danek noticed how carelessly Emil biked down the slippery slope? Has he noticed that he put together the audio commentary in his head where he wanted to talk about the most dangerous jumps? Has he heard Emil’s euphoric laugh before the crash? 

Crap – has he watched all the other videos already even though he’s never shown any interest in doing so before? The videos in which Emil only talks about dangerous extreme sports and utters not even a single word about figure skating? His palms are so wet that they are basically dripping.

“You are happy when you… you… What’s the word for it? When you bike? What’s the sport you’re doing in your latest videos even called?”

“Downhill.” Crap, crap, crap. “Danek, I –”

“You know that I love working with you. You are like the son I never had. But your thoughts are always somewhere else. On a mountain top, on the slope, in a torrent. Even during the events, when you’re on the ice, you’re not really _there_.”

Danek radiates desperation in a way that makes Emil want to promise that he will change for the better, that he will only think and live for figure skating, just to make him happy and cheerful again. He opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t think of the right words. Danek has not been his mentor for so long to raise him a liar. 

“Maybe you should take some time off. To think about what you really want to do with your life. Could you do that for me?”

This simple, sad speech his trainer has surely been practicing for quite some time now is worse than a sincere lecture. Emil almost chokes on the lump in his throat and nods. 

Danek rises from his chair. “Let’s discuss your options when you’ve come to a decision about your future, okay?”

***

Emil spends the next three days writing half-assed excuses to his sponsors, searching the best threesome porn clips and napping because he doesn’t know what to do else. Chris calls in the evening, shortly before he breaks his cock in half. 

“What are you doing, _Emille_?”

“Stupid things?” Emil has to laugh when Chris raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “But it’s not that bad. At least I finally have some days off.”

“In Brno, of all places? Just admit you’re hating every second of it.”

“Please don’t shit on my hometown,” Emil says.

Chris has a way of seeing right through peoples’ happy facades, which is kind of scary, but makes it easier not to deny the truth, and he does what he always does – he presents Emil a practical solution for his problems. “Well, Brno isn't the hub of the universe. You should come visit us.”

So Emil packs his things, says goodbye to his family, hobbles to the central station and boards a train to Switzerland. A few hours later Chris picks him up in Basel with a dark red Tesla. 

“Do I really wanna know why you’re driving such an expensive car?” Emil asks after hugging Chris and admiring his outfit consisting of a pair of bright red skinny jeans and a tight black shirt with absurdly deep cleavage. He flops onto the beige leather seats and lets his fingers wander over the mahogany dashboard. 

With a laugh, Chris starts the engine. The acceleration of the car presses Emil into his seat. 

“Got this baby for my new role. I’m playing a super rich pimp in the next Swiss _Tatort_ production. I told the production team I can only do it when I can get used to the car beforehand.” Chris’s eyes are as small as a very comfortable cat’s. “Also, I said I needed it as compensation for the psychological scars this role will give me.”

“You’re living the life,” Emil says. “And it fits you.”

“Playing a pimp? I’m deeply offended!”

“No, the car of course.”

Green meadows, beautiful mountains, a blue sky – Switzerland looks absolutely picturesque today. A cool breeze blows through the half-opened windows as the Tesla purrs in the direction of Chris’s villa. Emil catches his own image in the rear-view mirror and notices that he’s smiling. Chris speaks about his talk show guests, about movie shootings and his mysterious lover whose name is apparently a secret. Emil is more than happy to let Chris’s voice wash over him and lull him into a state of total contentment. 

The villa is as cozy as Emil remembers from the last time he visited. Maximilian, irritatingly handsome and polite as always, whirrs around him in an adorable attempt to be the perfect host while Chris and Emil lounge on the couch in front of the fireplace, eat cubed cheese, drink fancy red wine and enjoy life in general. Soft lounge music trickles out of the elegant Bose speakers that are scattered in the living room. Chris and Max’s cat sits in Emil’s lap and purrs while he strokes her soft fur. If there is a heaven, it might be located in Switzerland, in this villa, in this spacious, air-conditioned living room that smells of orange blossom, Swiss pine and tasteful extravaganza. 

“I’m so full I might throw up.” Emil sighs and rubs his prominent belly. He feels as if he’s just eaten a baby made of lead. 

“Not onto the Persian carpets. Max might have a heart attack,” says Chris and grabs his approximately fiftieth cheese cube. Unlike Emil, he seems to be unaffected by the fat content. “Come, have another glass of wine.” With that, he pours himself another glass. 

Max snorts from behind the kitchen counter where he prepares a plate of grapes and walnuts. 

Chris rolls his eyes playfully. “This man thinks I’m enjoying life after retiring a tad too much.”

“That’s because you do. I’m not sure a wine belly suits you, honey.”

“Oh, you’d adore me even if I was bald and hairless.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t rely on my undying love for you.” 

Their bickering reminds Emil of what his parents do all the time – teasing each other and showing their affection that way. Chris and Max seem to be so fucking happy. They have it all, enough money, a beautiful home, a working open marriage. They are content with what they have. Emil feels a sting in his chest because he is not.

Chris pushes himself into an upright position. “Babe, come quick. Emil’s looking unhappy.”

“This begs for a round of counselling.” Max flops on the sofa next to Chris, offers him some grapes and gives Emil an encouraging smile that makes Emil glad he’s already sitting because it has been too long since such a handsome man gifted him with all his attention. 

“You know we invited you because we want you to feel comfortable here, right?” Max says.

“Yeah. Of course I do.” Emil shifts in his chair and the cat jumps off of him, ambles around the coffee table and hops onto the couch to lie with her true owners. Yawning, she curls up in Chris’s lap. The sudden loss of warmth makes Emil realise he’d like to have something soft and cuddly just for himself. Maybe he should look into getting a pet, so many of the other ice skaters do. Slowly Emil starts to understand the appeal of that. “I’m very happy you invited me.”

“You don’t look very comfortable though.” 

Max is more attentive than Chris. Emil noticed it the first time they met, that and Max’s glossy hair as well as his elegant posture. Emil had ordered _Käsespätzle_ in an overcrowded skiing lodge in Kitzbühel, because no skiing trip is ever complete without the fatty deliciousness of melted cheese and noodles with caramelised onions on top. He couldn’t find a seat – apparently the winter holidays were the time where half a million Germans came to the little Austrian village to slide down the blue slopes and drive him mad. 

It was Max who invited him to their tiny table with a flick of his wrist. “You seem desperate, friend,” he shouted in German, a language Emil understood because he learned it in high school. “Come here.”

After a millisecond of giving it some thought, Emil went over and sat down the hard wooden bank. He was surprised when he spotted Christophe Giacometti next to the man who had offered him a seat and raised a hand to greet him. Emil didn’t consider Chris a friend at that time but was willing to spend some time in his company if he was at least able to eat his _Spätzle_ in peace. They had to share the wooden bench, Chris and him, and their plates and butts were touching when they exchanged greetings, names and some smalltalk.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Chris said, his smile cat-like. It was hard to understand his soft, accented German over the noise in the lodge. “How long are you staying?”

“Three more days. Won’t be coming back to this hellhole any time soon.” Emil stuffed his mouth with now lukewarm noodles. They were kinda gooey, not as delicious as he’d expected them to be, and he grimaced. “These are not good.”

“Oh, Kitzbühel has other things to offer than mediocre food.” Chin in his hands, Chris watched Emil eat. Emil’s ears turned hot under his gaze but he tried to stuff his face as nonchalantly as possible. Max chuckled behind his glass of water, his teeth all shiny and straight, eyes friendly. The two made a handsome couple. 

In retrospect, it was Max who made Emil stick around. 

“So what does Kitzbühel have to offer?”

“Us.” The lack of self-consciousness in Chris’s voice was incomparable to anything Emil had ever experienced. Not even Nikiforov radiated anything similar after winning gold medal after gold medal. “We are certainly the best attraction this village has to offer this time of the year.” 

Emil blinked twice and tried to mask his surprise with a broad grin. He finished his noodles trying to find out the meaning behind Chris's words as Chris and Max spoke to each other quietly, an occasionally looking in Emil’s direction. When he’d had finished the last bit of his food, he came to the conclusion that Chris had tried to hit on him. 

It was a strange feeling to realise that, not unpleasant, but entirely weird. Because he didn’t know what to say, he politely declined the offer Chris had or had not made. Max laughed, Chris patted his shoulder and told him Emil would change his mind sooner or later, everyone apparently did. Then they went skiing and partying together. The whole day ended with Emil kneeling in front of the toilet, puking his brains out, while Max caressed his hair and scolded him for trying to drink Chris under the table. They became fast friends after Emil covered Max’s leather loafers in vomit. 

“Is it the twins or ice skating?” Max asks and Emil is in Switzerland again. 

It’s impressive how Max is able to hit bullseye two times in a row. He is more attentive indeed - or maybe Chris has already told him everything and that’s why Max knows, because Chris can’t keep his mouth shut.

“It’s both, I guess,” Emil says. His whole life circles around these two topics it seems, and now that he has time to think too much, it’s getting worse. Training usually helps to keep the thoughts at bay. “They’re driving me nuts.”

Chris tilts his head. “I’m sorry to tell you but as long as you don’t tell them you want them…”

“Easier said than done.” Emil hides his face in his hands. He’ll soon go mad. Although his social media channels were overflowing with expressions of sympathy from practical strangers after the accident, the twins’ reactions were non-committal at best. Sara sent an impersonal one-liner via WhatsApp. Mickey left him a voice message calling him an idiot and wishing him all the best for the recovery period. 

That was it. Love looks different, that much is obvious. Love is matching icons on Instagram and sappy programs dedicated to each other. “They both have me brother-zoned bigtime.”

Max plays with the curls at the nape of Chris’s neck; the cat purrs. Emil snatches another cheese cube from the platter and stuffs it into his mouth before he starts sobbing because nobody pats his head. He’s pitiful, really. 

“You have to step up your game, _Emille_. Make things more obvious. Stop pining, start acting,” Chris says, ever the man of easy solutions. 

Emil doesn’t wanna sigh again, so he puts the cheese cube in his mouth and chews. “Shouldn’t I choose only one of them?” Should he pick Sara, fierce and soft at the same time, or Mickey, protective and knight-like? This is hard, too hard to be solved in one night. Hell, he’s had years to think about it and couldn’t come to a conclusion. 

Max chuckles softly. “You don’t have to choose, you know.”

Oh. There’s their poly thing Emil has totally forgotten about. All his blood shoots to his face. Sometimes he’s very, very stupid and very, very slow. He picks up another cheese cube and stares at it for some time while he’s collecting his thoughts. “Okay, even if I decide to be with both of them, They’re still siblings. Wouldn’t that bother you? 

“I won’t comment on that,” Max says. 

“As long as it makes all of you happy, it’s okay.” Chris takes a sip of his bordeaux and licks his lips. “I mean, I’m married to a German. Some Swiss people would consider that treason.”

Max hits Chris with a pillow, the cat jumps off the couch and hisses. Emil laughs. It was indeed a brilliant idea to come to Switzerland.

When his hosts start kissing and enter their own little world, Emil excuses himself and hobbles to the bathroom. In the tub, hidden under a blanket of rose-scented foam, he finally feels his muscles unclench. Lying in the hot water is like being in a spa, no, in heaven. He catches himself hum and only gets out when his skin starts turning wrinkly. 

After rubbing himself dry and putting the ankle brace back on he dresses in the black robe Max has thoughtfully provided for him. He returns to the living room where his hosts are watching the news, fingers intertwined, cat still on Chris’s lap. “I’m gonna head to bed. Thanks for having me, I appreciate it.”

Max’s eyes are warm like honeyed milk. “Anytime. You can stay as long as you want, you know. We don’t use the guest rooms anyway and the house is too big for the two of us.”

It’s good to hear that, and because it’s Max who says it, Emil is willing to believe every word of it. The villa is indeed gigantic, everytime he turns the wrong way in a hallway, he ends up in a room he hasn’t seen yet. “Thanks. I might take your offer.”

“Did you enjoy the bath?”, Chris asks, nibbling cheese again. He seems to have a second stomach just for dairy products. 

Emil nods. “Yeah, thanks. It was great.” It really was – his tiny flat in Brno only has a very small bathroom with a shower that doesn’t even allow him to drown a mouse. There will be many baths happening in the next few days. 

“What do you think about sleeping with us?” Chris says and tilts his head. 

Emil swallows and stares at Chris in his bright red silken pajamas. 

“Christophe,” Max sighs. “Don’t freak him out on his first day already.”

***

Sleeping with both of them is actually pretty nice. In fact, it doesn’t involve anything weird, if one doesn’t count lying in a gigantic king size bed between two happily married men. Not that Emil has any concerns about the morals of this – they invited him into their bedroom and both promised nothing would happen unless he absolutely wanted it. Now that Emil has clearly stated he has no intention to do anything with them except cuddle, they leave him be. 

Emil’s nose is buried in Chris’s still damp, lemon-scented curls, his right hand wrapped around Chris’s muscular upper body. Max presses against Emil from behind, strokes his back, kisses his hair and he soon falls asleep. 

Emil listens to his even breathing and he catches himself falling into the same rhythm. Lying here, matching his breath to another person’s right next to him is like the meditation exercise he tried in Bali once. He focuses on the flow of air through his lungs, empties his head and tries just to be here in this bed, to feel every molecule in his body. 

“Are you happy?” Chris whispers into the darkness and presses against him. 

“Very,” Emil murmurs back. He drags Chris even closer, grabs his hand and locks their fingers for a moment. Chris’s ass feels nice and round. “This is perfect.”

“I wouldn’t have minded making out though.”

Emil snorts. Chris is surely smiling his most seductive smile, but even if Emil’s cock is startled from its doze he has no intention to act on it. Chris is cute and fun to be around, but Emil prefers calmer guys who don’t show off their gayness like a new pair of shiny leather boots. 

Someone like Max, to be precise. 

“Sleep well, my friend,” Emil says. Then he closes his eyes. 

***

Weeks pass. Late autumn turns into winter. Emil stays.

Every morning he wakes up before anyone else in the villa. After freeing himself from a tangle of limbs and blankets, he feeds the cat and does some exercise – walking with the ankle brace during the first few weeks, then running without it in the cold autumn air when the personal trainer he’s hired allows for it. 

When he gets back he hops under the shower and prepares breakfast for his hosts. Chris likes sunny side up with rye bread, Max only drinks black coffee and stares at the wall while occasionally harrumphing. In stark contrast to Emil, they are not morning people at all. It is adorable to watch them shuffle around the kitchen, hair messy, faces mushed, thankful for his presence but unable to communicate it. 

Emil leaves them for some peace and quiet after eating his morning porridge. He likes to sit outside on the patio till noon, cat in his lap, wrapped in a warm blanket, mesmerised by the snow-capped mountains and the golden tree crowns in the distance. 

When he’s stronger and his foot is okay again, he wants to meander through the woods and climb the _Jungfrau_ with Kveta. She has sent him several care packages with _Fidorky_ already because he can’t get his favourite chocolate wafers anywhere in Switzerland. As soon as her busy schedule allows it she’s promised to visit. Emil is thankful that she’s there for him when at the same time he hates to be reminded there’s another life waiting. Also, he doesn’t believe for one second that she’s really planning to come. The times where she left everything behind just to be with him are long gone. 

He won’t admit it to anyone but the cat, but he is homesick. Although he could leave whenever he wants to, he feels as if he’s been sent to exile – by Danek, by his fans who demand information about his whereabouts and his plans for the next season via social media, and by the Crispino twins who haven’t tried to get in touch with him. It’s crazy and he knows it, but he can’t get rid of the idea that they’re punishing him for not competing against them. 

Maybe it’s God who is teaching him a lesson for not being honest with Danek, who knows. He's not a religious person, but the thought of a higher being angry at him is somehow comforting. It would mean it isn't his fans or Danek or Sara or Mickey he has to answer to. On the other hand it is scary to think that he has to make a decision about what to do with his life sooner or later. 

The sponsors are getting antsy. He’s already lost two sponsorship deals. At least Red Bull is still waiting for an answer whether he wants to become a full time extreme sports YouTuber for them or not, but they won’t wait forever. Sometimes he wakes at night and stares at the wood paneling of the bedroom ceiling while trying to control his breathing by listening to the two men next to him.

He wants to believe they don’t notice what’s going on, but Max and Chris are not stupid. They offer him the empty room in the attic after Max finds Emil hyperventilating in the bathroom. “It’s for when you need time to think,” Max says one evening and hands Emil the keys. 

The cold metal feels pleasant in Emil’s hands. He clutches it and tries to put on a happy face, for his friends who have been so good to him. However, he tries not to go to the room too often, and he makes sure not to stay too long. The future is scary after all and his mind is an empty wasteland when he’s not occupied. 

Thankfully, the villa offers many distractions. Max and Chris host lavish dinner parties frequently; their friends are beautiful, rich and almost all related to the Swiss skating foundation. Max’s former ice dancing partner Adalina, a wiry brunette with big brown eyes and a mouth that seems to be exclusively made for smiling and giving blow jobs, visits almost every weekend. 

She reminds Emil of Sara somehow. Maybe it’s the loud laugh, maybe it’s the spring in her step, maybe it’s because she swears in Italian and talks with her hands. Sometimes she brings her quiet Spanish husband, but more often than not she comes alone; there is more chemistry between her and Max anyway. Emil entertains the suspicion that after all these years, they still have a thing going. It’s the way they finish each other’s sentences and laugh about jokes nobody except them find even remotely funny. Chris’s lips curl in a way that show he’s happy for Max when Adalina is around. Emil doesn't dare to ask what’s going on. Some parts of their poly dynamics are still hard to understand for him. 

“I could show you around. The St. Jakob ice hall is pretty nice. I could ask our former coach to help you train. What do you think?”

Emil smiles politely although his stomach is in knots. “I’d rather not.” The thought of putting on skates again gives him goosebumps. 

Adalina frowns. “Come on, boy. You can’t stop skating, you have a lot of potential! Max thinks so too.”

Across from Emil, Max tries to hide behind his monogrammed napkin, avoiding Emil’s eyes. And Emil understands.

This is the first night they ever fight. Everyone except Adalina, who has offered to clean up, has left and Chris has gone to bed. In the kitchen, Emil accuses Max of setting Adalina on him to make him skate again. 

Max leans to the counter and puts down the plate he’s drying. He sighs. “Chris and I talked a lot about this. We just wanted you to be happy and we thought –”

“Let me be happy the way I want to be,” Emil snaps, his face hot. He can’t remember the last time he felt so genuinely helpless and lost. He also can’t remember the last time he shouted at someone. 

“I’m so sorry.” Max opens his arms and Emil flies into them, silently sobbing, too afraid that the beautiful woman in the living room might hear. “It was stupid to think we could force you to do anything.” He pats Emil’s back. With everyone else, it would be awkward, but because Max is Max, it’s okay. 

Eventually Emil calms down. He even manages to make a happy face after he’s dried his face with his sleeves. 

Max grins. “You have snot in your beard. Come here.” With a piece of kitchen towel, he gently wipes Emil’s chin. Emil can’t help but snort because it tickles. 

They return to the living room where Adalina is sitting on the couch and reading one of Chris’s lifestyle magazines. She seems to be entirely comfortable and doesn’t show any sign of leaving soon. Emil settles down next to her and crosses his arms behind his head, exchanging a look with her. She winks. He grins. “Still here?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of staying. I’m _pre-tty_ drunk.”

In comparison to Emil, who had three large Czech beers, she’s had only a glass of red wine. Calling a cab would not be too much of an effort. 

Max plops into an armchair and closes his eyes. He yawns. “You can take the blue room if you want to stay.”

“Will you keep me company a bit longer?” she asks innocently and licks her lips. She’s still turning the pages of the magazine, not really reading but browsing the pages, looking for something that might catch her interest. 

Emil suddenly feels he shouldn’t be in this room. The tension between them is stronger than ever, like a magnetic pull. He’s an interference. He should leave. 

That’s when he realises Max is looking directly at him, questioning him silently. _Why don’t you stay as well? And, more importantly, do you want to?_

Does he? Adalina is indeed beautiful, and most likely very flexible. She seems to be interested – in Max, or in him. Maybe she’s interested in both of them. She might not only be here to get him back into skating but to distract him from other things too. Who can say with women like her. Who knows what Max has planned. 

Emil realises he’s interested enough to find out what’s behind all this. So he nods, heart hammering in his chest. “Does Chris know?” he asks although he knows the answer already when Max’s face lights up like the morning sun. 

Adalina’s laugh is like a copper bell. “Oh, he _knows_. All of us want to make you happy.” Then she puts her magazine away and leans over to kiss Emil. He wraps his hand around her neck, moaning into her mouth, when Max sits down behind him and starts untucking his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tatort_ is a German language police procedural television series. It’s very popular in Germany, Switzerland and Austria. I can totally see Chris being part of it!


	5. Chapter 5

“Was this your plan from the beginning?” Emil asks. He’s playing with the long locks on the nape of Max’s neck, those that curl around his fingers like evergreen ivy on the northern wall of the villa. 

Outside it’s early morning and it is snowing for the first time this year. The soft noise of falling snowflakes makes Emil want to stay in the large bed in the attic room all day. When Max joined him up here as soon as Chris left, the room seemed to light up considerably. Emil understands this is _their_ place; it will continue to be until Chris comes back and Max will return to him and the master bedroom. Emil isn’t sure he wants to follow him then. Better not to think about it. Better focus on here and now, on Max’s soft chest hair and his flat stomach and his cock, warm and promising between his fingers. 

“It wasn’t,” Max murmurs. He’s still half asleep, not used to Emil’s habit of getting up too early. “We both wanted you, at first. Then it became different.”

Emil snugs closer to Max, feels his broad back, his sculpted ass. “For you.”

“Yeah. Chris is still after you, you know.”

Emil laughs. The last few weeks have told him Chris would never do anything against his will, and because they discussed that Emil is not interested, he backed off and left them alone to go to St. Petersburg. Max seems to know who Chris’s mysterious Russian lover is, but Emil doesn’t because he’s never asked and was never told. According to Max, Adalina also left for some skiing trip with her meek husband. Emil likes it that way; now, it’s only the cat and him fighting for Max’s attention.

Slowly, Max turns around in Emil’s arms and yawns, showing all his cavity fillings in the process. Emil leans forward, belly full of a warm feeling he can’t yet describe. He wipes away Max’s bangs and kisses him onto the forehead. “Shall I make breakfast?”

“Why not stay here?”

“Because your morning breath is killing me. You need to eat.” Ungracefully, Emil rolls out of bed, which makes Max chuckle, and pads across the cold hardwood floor. His cock is in a strange half-hard, annoying stage. He doesn’t bother to put on a robe; there’s no one in the villa except the cat and with Max and Chris as owners, she’s surely seen worse. 

In the kitchen he finds brown bread and some Gruyère, and puts coffee in the Bialetti for Max. For himself he boils some water to make green tea. He digs around in the fridge for carrots but there are none, so he gives up. When he’s in town next time, he has to get a bunch. 

When they were younger and closer, Mickey always made sure he had carrots at home when Emil stayed over. 

Emil sighs. The kettle hisses. 

Max enters the kitchen, _Tagesanzeiger_ in his hand, and yawns, the cat at his heels meows. Emil gives him a kiss on the cheek and puts the assembled breakfast on the breakfast table before he feeds the cat. All three of them eat and drink in silence, something Emil likes. It’s always chatting with his other friends, that and big hand gestures, even while having food, or watching a competition, or playing board games. He takes a bite of his bread, still misses his carrots and makes a mental note to get some later when he walks to town for his rehab appointment.

“Thanks for the breakfast,” Max says when he’s through with the newspaper and awake enough to function like a decent human being. He reaches across the table and strokes Emil’s hand. “You’re a good boyfriend.”

Emil intertwines his fingers with Max’s and makes sure to smile. There’s something in this word that should make him much happier than it actually does.

Once Max is off to some Ice Skating Federation duty Emil would rather know nothing about, he wanders down the hill. Although his ankle is a lot better, climbing the _Jungfrau_ will still have to wait till Spring. Late Autumn in Switzerland brought unstable weather and Emil can’t risk getting hurt again. He has to be in perfect condition if he wants to secure the sponsorship deal with Red Bull. 

A fine drizzle starts and Emil pulls the hood of his jacket over his head. The air smells of rotten leaves and wild mushrooms as he walks through a grove and passes a picturesque meadow. In summer brown cows graze and ruminate here, but now it’s empty. Fog drifts over the grass, a bird is twittering in the shrubs. Somewhere further down a dog is barking angrily. Somehow, Emil is at peace.

At the outskirts of town, his mobile rings. It’s Sara, agitated and lively. The sound of her voice makes Emil’s belly turn into a gooey mess. “Where are you?” she cries.

“On my way to rehab,” Emil answers, still not sure why she’s calling out of the blue.

“Can you pick us up? We’re at the train station!”

For a moment, Emil is too confused to answer. “Wait, what?”

***

They both came. Sara hugs Emil so tight that he forgets to breathe. Mickey obviously tries to hide his joy behind a grumpy face. “What took you so long?” he grumbles. They both look amazing – tanned faces, shiny hair, clear skin. It’s obvious they had a great season. 

Emil doesn’t even know how they scored. He hits Mickey’s shoulder. “Come on, you could have told me beforehand.” 

He’s then informed that the Crispinos in fact tried to contact him several times and he admits that he might have forgotten to check his social media sites. He doesn’t tell them this happened because he was having fun with Christophe Giacometti’s boyfriend. They are not the kind of people to understand arrangements like these.

Sara hooks her arm into his and drags him out of the train station. “I’m so glad Chris invited us over. We can only stay a night though,” she says. “Our trainer is killing us at the moment.”

So it was Chris who arranged the whole thing behind his back, and maybe Max knew too. Those sneaky bastards. Emil can’t help but smile. He didn’t know he was missing his friends so much but now that they’re here, he’s glad they came. “I’ll call you a cab and join you after rehab, okay?”

When he returns home, they’re already waiting for him. Max is properly dressed for the first time in days, the tight jeans and the white shirt fit him perfectly. Mickey, no less handsome in his lilac jumper, is making carrot salad with raisins and walnuts and _Pasta alla Nonna_ , Emil’s all-time favourites. He's also brought some red wine from his uncle’s vineyard. Sara and Max are already best buddies. The cat has apparently adopted the twins, thinks they are hers and has already covered Sara’s black trousers in cat hair. It is glorious. The corners of Emil’s mouth start hurting because he can’t stop smiling.

“I’m gonna teach you two _Jassen_ ,“ Max announces after dinner, when Emil’s belly is so full of happiness and pasta and salad he thinks he might explode any time soon. “Chris gave me the order, so you can’t say no.“

“Stop rolling your eyes, Mickey,“ Sara whispers in Italian when she notices her brother making a face. “He’s so nice to let us stay here.“

Mickey sighs and the sound alone makes Emil’s intestines somersault because it reminds him of times when Mickey made similar noises. When they were naked in the sauna after training. When Emil jerked off Mickey in the broom closet where nobody was supposed to see and hear. When they were still young and Emil so full of hope that he’d win his rinkmate’s heart if he only tried hard enough. 

“Let’s play then,“ Mickey says. Although he’s bad at card games, he’s a competitive person so after a few minutes he’s eager to destroy anyone with the right set of cards. Sara’s eyes glow. She’s enjoying this a lot, trying to understand the rules and the patterns she needs to draw to win. They are twins after all, and they’ve always aimed to be the best.

Emil clears the table, because he already knows how to play, sits apart on the couch and pretends to read so that no one notices he’s staring. But he can’t help it. Three people he adores are in this room and it simply makes him want to bear hug and then kiss all of them at the same time. There’s Max, tall and strong, the shadow of his beard covering his chiseled face. Only looking at him makes Emil’s mouth water and anticipate everything that will come later. Max is so attentive that the sex with him is everything Emil didn’t know he ever missed. Every touch, every movement, just done to make him happy.

There’s Sara, with her brown skin and her perfect curves, fussing over Mickey, pouring him more wine, caressing his hand with her long fingers. She looks over to Emil and winks, then drops a cluster fuck-bomb in Italian when Mickey wins again with a perfect hand.

Mickey smirks. Although Emil thinks it’s physically impossible he’s gotten even more handsome over the course of the last few months. Whatever he did to his hair was a good idea because it makes Emil want to touch and tousle it and mess it up, preferably with Mickey on his back, naked and ready to go. Emil can’t decide whether he wants to fuck him or be fucked – the only thing he’s sure about is that Sara and Max will be in bed with them, either watching or having some fun of their own. Sara’s tits are glorious, Max will love them, he –

Sara clears her throat. “Emil?“

Emil makes a half-sound to mask that he’s been lost in thought, and quickly covers his hard-on with the magazine he was supposed to be reading. 

Sara yawns. “I’m tired,” she says. “Enough Jassen for today. I think I’ll go to bed soon.” 

Emil throws Max a look.

Max understands because he’s great and Emil has already told him everything about his sad crush on Sara and Mickey. “I’ll show you to your room. Emil, could you keep Michele company?” 

It’s perfect, actually, because after Sara and Max are gone and Emil has calmed down, he manages to lure Mickey from the kitchen table onto the couch. He even gets to sit next to him so that he can smell his earthy cologne. “I missed you,” he says.

“Missed you too, bro.” Due to half a bottle of _vino rosso_ , Mickey hits his back a bit too hard and laughs a bit too loudly, but because he’s one of Emil’s oldest friends, Emil can see over it. “Will you be at the Grand Prix Final?” he asks. “You have to come.”

Emil tilts his head. “You know I’m going to retire this year, right?” They haven’t exactly talked about this - well, they haven’t talked at all - but Mickey would have to be blind and stupid not to realise where Emil’s journey is taking him. 

“Well, Giacometti is there every year and he’s _old_ , so…” 

So today is obviously not the day they’re gonna speak about what happens after Emil retires. “Chris is only three years older than you. And in perfect shape.”

Mickey makes a face and waves off his objection with an impatient flick of his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Come to the banquet with us. It’s tradition, you can’t not come. How will I get my yearly dose of disgusting beer if you don’t come?”

It’s hard to argue with that. 

***

Emil crawls into their bed after putting Mickey in a room that is as far away from Sara’s as possible. Max is naked again, warm and willing. They kiss. Then, as quiet as possible, Max’s fingers pressed over Emil’s mouth, they fuck. It’s more tender than usual, strangely bittersweet almost, and slow. When Emil comes after an eternity, Max kisses his moans from his lips and licks the sweat from his eyebrow.

Emil lies on Max’s chest afterwards, playing with the curly chest hair he has learned to love over the course of the last few weeks. A full moon is shining, the sky is starlit. There’s nothing like a night in the Swiss Alps, he thinks. Maybe he’ll ask the twins if they will come back to hike with him here next summer, when the weather is better and when he’s finally retired for good. 

When he’s finally dared to retire, that is.

“Are you happy?” Max asks. “Is this making you happy?”

Emil turns over and rests his chin in his hands. “Being here with you? Yeah. I’m very happy.”

Max raises an eyebrow in a way that is so Chris it pulls on Emil’s heartstrings. “The twins.” Long fingers caress his cheek and fondle his beard that will soon need a meticulous trim. “I saw you looking at both of them. It’s cute.”

“If anything, it’s _stupid_. They have each other. No need for another person in their life. Also, why are we talking about this?” Emil doesn’t want to think about them now. He doesn’t want to think, _period_. With a smile, he lowers his head and tries to kiss Max. Kissing helps to get rid of everything, the perfect remedy. 

Max turns his head and Emil’s lips land awkwardly on his stubbled cheek. “I think we should talk about this.”

“I don’t want to.” 

Max’s fingers are still in his beard, combing it. He’s humming a German folk song Emil has heard a hundred times by now but still cannot name. He’s waiting. 

“Oh.” Suddenly Emil understands. “You’re trying to tell me to leave, aren’t you?” He swallows. “Have I… Have I overstayed my welcome?” 

Max sits up. “Calm down. No one is telling you to leave.” 

He drags Emil into an embrace Emil didn’t know he needed and also shows that the last sentence was missing a ‘yet’. Emil’s heart is racing, his skin is cold. Desperately, he clings to Max and hides his face in the crook of his neck. Max’s scent is divine, his skin is so soft, everything about him feels safe. 

“ _I_ don’t want you to leave.”

“So what are you trying to tell me then?” Emil whimpers. It takes all his willpower not to burst into tears.

“I’m trying to tell you to think about your real feelings. And maybe about considering a return to the real world,” Max says eventually. “I think you know you can’t hide in exile forever.”

***

The worst thing about it is that Emil can’t even be properly mad about the fact that Max is once again deciding for him without asking about his opinion first. He tentatively tries to be angry for a day after the twins leave and Michele makes Emil promise to come to the Grand Prix Final in Marseille. He gives it up when he realises it’s useless because he’s not a person to hold grudges. Kveta even called him a ‘cute doormat’ once. Soon, he starts packing. Max helps. 

“You do understand I only want you to be happy?” Max says.

“You’re repeating yourself,” Emil says and kisses him, hands full of dirty socks and toiletries. 

Chris arrives home in the evening with a suitcase full of sunflower seeds, black tea and a storage full of photos. He claims he’s learned a new blini recipe from a friend and serves dinner after he’s wreaked havoc in the kitchen. Max watches him in awe while Emil watches Max, his stomach in knots. 

  
  


It’s stupid to be jealous. If anyone was allowed to be, it’s Chris, but apparently Chris has no sense of jealousy at all. “I hope you entertained Max well while I was away,” he says and laughs when Emil can’t come up with a fun comeback quickly enough. “Oh, no need to tell me anything. I know all the dirty details already.”

Of course he does. Their marriage only works under the condition that they share everything, which also also means Chris now knows what Emil likes in bed. It was easier to forget about it when he was still in Russia, half a world away. When Emil could pretend he was the only one. He realises he’ll never be the one, for either of them, because they already have each other. Emil has deja vu and an epiphany at the same time, which makes his head hurt in a weird brain cramp, but it also makes the decision easier.

“I’m gonna go back to Brno. I think I’ll tell Danek I’m going to retire. And I’m gonna confess to the twins at the Grand Prix Final,” he announces after dinner. 

Chris beams at him and raises his glass. “Wow, _Emille_. I’m happy for you.”

“Hey, I haven’t left yet,” Emil wants to say, but then he looks at Max and Max makes this proud face and Emil knows he’s actually going to return to reality. 

***

“Hey jerk.” Kveta embraces Emil in a tight hug that reminds him who taught him how to properly hug someone in the first place all those years ago. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too,” Emil says, and as soon as it’s out of his mouth it becomes true. He hasn’t forgotten about Max and Chris over the course of the overnight train trip home. Every time he thinks about the villa and its inhabitants it hurts like a dormant rotten tooth. But having Kveta pick him up from the train station in her ratty VW Polo, with her bright grin and her septum piercing and her fierce hands makes everything more bearable, at least for now. 

They crash in Caffe del Saggio, their favourite since their teenage years due to its dated charm and its delicious carrot cake. Emil has missed the dusty antique chaise longue in the back corner of the cafe and the grumpy waiter more than he could have imagined. He inhales the coffee and old people scents that make home while Kveta tells him about everything he missed. 

Emil is able to tune her out until she says, “Also, you need to get that Red Bull thing going.” 

“God, girl. Let me arrive.”

“No.” Apparently Kveta is not having any of it for longer. She glares at him over the brim of her mug. “Danek needs some kind of closure – the poor man doesn’t know what you’ve decided in your Swiss monastery. Red Bull needs a decision asap. You need to actually wake up from your lethargy and get your shit together. None of them will wait forever.” Carefully, she takes a sip of her steaming black coffee. “Also, I’m gonna slit the tires of your favourite bike if you don’t get your ass in gear soon.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Emil says and literally feels all the colour vanish from his face when Kveta shows all her teeth in a snarling grin.

“Oh, you know very well I would. Also, your mom’s on board with giving you a kick in your sexy behind.”

Emil makes a gurgling sound. If even his sweet mother is not opposed to this idea, he’s screwed. However, the last thing he wants to do now is decide anything. “I’ve just come back. Please give me a break.”

Her gaze is merciless.

He sighs. “I didn’t miss that side of you at all.” 

“You’re a terrible liar.” She takes his hand, just like when they were still together. There’s a new, almost healed cut on her hand, right across her outer wrist. Kveta has been doing videos without him to keep their channel alive, and there surely have been crashes, there always are. He doesn’t know where she got this cut from. With his index finger, he traces the wound, musing that it’s gonna make a pretty scar when it’s healed. 

Emil misses collecting scars. 

“Visit Danek first, find out how to deal with your love life and deal with Red Bull after that,” Kveta says, turns her hand around and presses his fingers in a way that doesn’t leave space for discussion. 

And so Emil drops his stuff in his flat, puts on respectable clothes and takes the trip to Danek’s house in the outskirts of Brno. He rings the bell, sits down on the couch with his trainer, watches him getting two bottles of _Starobrno_ and opening them. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room is ticking so loudly it’s drilling holes in Emil’s frontal lobe.

“And?” Danek is clearly expecting something huge; the way he shifts in his place and sits with a spine too straight for his age betrays him. 

Emil can’t bring himself to say the words, so he smiles. Curse him and his coping mechanisms when he doesn’t want to get shit done.

“That habit of yours is really annoying,” Danek says and leans back. He covers his face with his hands. The beer is on the coffee table, long forgotten. “But I see. When you didn’t get in touch right away, I knew.”

There’s not much to say after that. Emil makes sure to promise to handle his retirement as professionally as possible before he hugs his friend and trainer goodbye. It’s fun how a yearlong partnership can end over the course of one evening, just like that. “

Take care,” Danek says. 

When Emil closes the front door behind himself his heart now feels a ton lighter than it had in all the months before. 

***

“Get it over with, I beg you. You managed so well with the rest.” Kveta furiously grabs another fistful of paprika chips right out of the package and stuffs them into her mouth. One reason why Emil is so fond of her is complete absence of manners. The other is that she's the most honest person he knows. 

It’s evening and they're sitting in Kveta's living room. Her flat is in the attic of a building from the nineteenth century and has these high ceilings that always makes any room instantly more elegant but also so much colder. Consequently, it’s about eighteen degrees. Emil is wrapped in a green woolen blanket and snuggles closer to Kveta, who wears a hideous black plush onesie with bear ears. Both cling to cups of herbal tea and are surprised they can’t see their breath while talking. 

“Don't know how,” Emil says. It was relatively easy to fix things the ISU and with Danek and to call the Red Bull branch manager whose numbers he’d saved in his phone since last August. But now it’s the twins he has to deal with next, and the twins are their entire own chapter of craziness. “Should I just fly to the Finals and get it over with?” Dear lord, just thinking of it gives him nightmares.

Kveta nods eagerly, still munching. “You need to free your mind, bro. As long as you can't focus on something else, you're hurting the business, and I can't have you hurting the business.” She bends forward to grab her laptop, opens it and types. “Here, book the flight now. You have to go anyway because of that stupid tradition of yours.” She shoves the computer into Emil's lap. It’s pleasantly warm, just like the cat was. 

Emil stares at the screen. Booking.com flashes at him, ready to take his information and money. 

Kveta pokes him in the ribs. “I won't let you chicken out. Staying in Switzerland for weeks is one thing – but making nothing of your time there is the other. Book the damn flight.” When Emil smiles a wavering smile she pats his knee. “You will figure out the rest when you are there.”

“But what if they reject me?” He knows he sounds like a baby but this is hard. 

Fortunately she knows him well enough. “Then you know the truth and keep on living. I mean, you managed just fine when I dumped you,” she simply says and laughs when Emil pulls a face. “And now shut up about those two. I've heard enough stories about them to last a lifetime.”

***

In the end it's easy. He knows that the twins are in Vancouver and he also knows he can’t tackle them as an entity. At least a hundred times he’s seen them communicate silently with their eyes and through subtle gestures, coming to conclusions they wouldn’t have come up with on their own. He needs to hear what they really feel about him, not what they think they’re supposed to feel based on their twin’s reaction. 

When Emil lands, he buys a bouquet of gardenias from the airport florist and boards a taxi straight to the Doug Mitchell Thunderbird Sports Centre. On his phone and while ignoring the blissful chatter of the Iranian taxi driver, he checks the current score: Sara finished second, only beaten by Elena Dergay, the fifteen-year-old Russian wunderkind Nikiforov has been coaching since the start of the season. 

Despite the hoards of skaters, helpers, trainers, relatives, fans and friends, it’s easy to spot Sara in the hallways. She’s still wearing her bright red competition dress, hair tied into a knot that brings out the best of her cheekbones, silver medal around her neck. Although she’s made only second place, she’s glowing. Elena, tiny and strawberry blonde, walks right next to her in an oversized Russia jacket that looks as if she’s stolen it from one of her male team members. 

“Sara!” he shouts before he can think of any better way to catch her attention. 

Sara whips around. When she recognises him despite his shorter hair and his clean shave, she cries: “You really came!” She grabs Elena by the hand and drags her over to Emil and the flowers that suddenly look so shabby compared to her natural glow. 

Emil bows and smiles at the Russian girl who looks at him with uncovered interest. Her eyes are a very light green. “You’re the one who got lost,” she says in heavily accented English. 

Emil isn’t sure it’s the language barrier or some kind of strange prophecy that’s speaking out of her. He takes her hand nevertheless and shakes it. “You’re the child protege.”

“I am not Yuri Plisetsky or Viktor Nikiforov,” she says as if this would explain everything. Her expression is icy.

After a moment Emil decides that one, she suffers from a severe case of resting bitch face and two, that he likes this fierce girl who tries to stare him down. It takes him another moment to realise she’s protective of Sara. “Well, it’s nice meeting you. I’m expecting great things of you in the future.”

Sara chuckles. “Elena, dear, could you give me a moment with my friend Emil? I’ll text you later.” 

Elena huffs and turns on her heels, but not before glaring at Emil. 

“What have you told her?” he asks. What’s with these young Russians and their stares full of knives? Is there a secret school where they learn how to murder people with their eyes? 

Before he can think more about this, Sara grabs his hand. “You kept your promise.” 

Emil can’t remember promising anything but nods mesmerised when his lovesick brain understands that Sara is touching him. “These are for you,” he says, as if it wasn't obvious. “Congrats on second place.”

“You remembered my favourites. You’re so sweet. And thanks. She’s young but she’s so talented, I don’t feel bad that I lost at all.” She lets go of his hand to take the flowers from him and inhales their scent. “I need to find a vase, don’t I?” With that she turns around and Emil follows, listening to her chatter about the competition and her trainer and the terrible pasta she had at the cafeteria. 

They leave the rink and walk across the street and only when the cold Canadian air bites his cheeks Emil realises they’re probably gonna end up in her room in her nearby hotel. Which might also be Mickey’s room, if things haven’t changed. Which is the last place where he wants to be right now. “Um, Sara?”

“Yeah?”

“I need to talk with you in private for a few minutes.”

Sara stops and turns around. “Oh, only us two?” 

Is it an omen that she understands that fast? Is this the blessing of the Russian sorceress? Emil’s palms are sweaty. He nods. “Is there any place…”

She leads him to the hotel bar, an abandoned place at this time of the day. Only a very bored waiter is cleaning the surfaces and doesn’t even take the time to look at them when they sit down in a nook as far away from him as possible. Then there is silence. With his index finger, Emil draws circles on the damp surface of the table while Sara puts the flowers on the chair next to her and flips through the menu.

Eventually, she’s leaning across the table, which gives Emil a nice look at her cleavage. “What is it, Emil? You’re looking so sincere. You’re freaking me out a bit. Is everything alright? Did something happen with Max? Or Chris? I swear I’m gonna kill him if they –”

“Sara, I’m in love with you.” There, it’s out. 

“Oh.” Her eyebrows shoot in the general direction of her hairline. The way her shoulders slump tells Emil everything he needs to know. It hurts.

“So you don’t see me like that, huh.”

“No. I’m sorry.” She looks at him and means it.

Emil wants her so much it hurts. It’s also painful not to be wanted after all. It’s not that he got rejected, he knew that this would happen before, somehow, if he’s entirely honest with himself. “Don’t apologise for your feelings. But please tell me why.” He needs to know, for closure.

Sara bites her bottom lip searching for words. This is hard for her, that much is obvious. “I don’t know how to say this without hurting you. You’re one of my best friends.”

_I’m hurt anyway_ , Emil thinks but smiles instead. She’s weak to his smiles. Actually, everyone is. Except Danek, maybe. “Shoot it at me, I can take it.”

“It would be like dating my brother,” she says.

“But you _are_ dating your brother,” Emil answers, completely awestruck, while the growing lump in his his throat is choking him slowly. 

“That’s not the same,” she answers, just as if this is the most normal thing to discuss. It’s the first time they’ve openly talked about this, but the irony of the things said seem to be completely lost on her. “You don’t need to understand.”

“I’m not trying to, actually,” Emil lies through gritted teeth. _Then you know the truth and keep on living_. He’s not sure he’s gonna manage that easily. “Thanks for being honest with me.” 

“Always. You’re my friend, remember?” 

He desperately tries to put on a friendly face. Crying is not an option at this point.

Sara’s hands waver over the table as if she is thinking of taking his hand, then shies away and hides them in her lap instead. “I like your new look. The clean shave suits you.” Her tiny voice is nothing like her loud usual self. “I didn’t know you had such nice cheekbones.”

“You’ve known me since I was a boy. I can’t always have had a beard.” 

“Well, I remember a younger version of you, but for some reason you’ve always had a beard in my memories.” A shy smile creeps onto her face. “Do you remember the day we first met?”

He remembers the hot summer day perfectly. How beautiful Sara and Mickey looked and how kind they were to him when he felt homesick. They took him home to their grandmother. Nonna Alberta patted his head and fed him a gigantic plate of _spaghetti carbonara_. This was the day he learned that this dish wasn’t made with cream like his mother cooked it, but with eggs; this was the day he learned how to roll up pasta without a spoon. 

This was the day he fell in love with the Crispino twins. 

“Not really,” he says. 

Sara’s eyes twinkle in the artificial light. It takes Emil a moment too long to realise she’s holding back tears herself, and it gives him a strange sadistic joy when they start to fall. “Sara –”

“Will you drink with us later?” she says, her lips shivering, an ethereal being. 

Emil wants to hug her, to touch her, to tell her that everything is going to be alright. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, because it’s the truth and he’s never been a good liar, just good at saying nothing.

Sara gets up, face wet, eyes proud. “Well then,” she whispers and leaves. 

At least she takes the flowers with her, he observes. 

Emil sits a while longer, until he has gathered enough strength to get up as well. The bartender who must have heard everything shoots him a compassionate look. Emil feels the strong urge to punch his face, but because he still considers himself a pacifist, he hurries out of the hotel bar instead. In the lobby he flops on a leather couch and grimly texts Mickey. Since he’s burning bridges today, then he’s gonna do it right and set them all on fire at once to get this over with.

Mickey storms in only minutes after Emil sends the message. His anger sweeps into the hall with him like a murder of angry crows. “You!” he shouts and points at Emil, who jumps to his feet and unconsciously balls his fists while simultaneously trying to calm down Mickey with an apologetic smile. 

It doesn’t melt Mickey’s anger but seems to ignite it even further. “What did you do?!” The receptionist hurries into the backroom. Thank God there’s nobody else here to witness this other than a tank full of bored goldfish. 

“I had to,” Emil says when Mickey is right in front of him, handsome and frightening and so the man of Emil’s self-indulgent daydreams. 

Mickey’s eyes are slits. “You made her cry, you asshole. You made my sister cry. You’re gonna apologise for the shit you said.”

“I won’t apologise for how I feel,” Emil says, suddenly feeling very brave, braver than ever when throwing himself down a cliff or skiing down the steepest mountains. This is what it boils down to he realises, facing your inner fears and conquering them. “By the way, I’m in love with you too. I’ve always been since the day we first met.” Whatever comes out of this, Kveta and Max will be so proud of him. He will text both later to let them know how this went – which is most likely not well, if Mickey’s red face and the popping vein on his forehead are an indicator. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mickey growls. “What’s wrong with you? What the hell happened to you in Switzerland?”

It’s a reasonable question, but it can’t be answered now or ever. Emil just looks at Mickey and notices he’s completely calm. The whole situation almost feels like an out-of-body experience: he’s here and not here with Mickey in the lobby of this generic four-star hotel with its equally generic designer furniture and the insignificant magazines and coffee table books on the side tables, with the black and white photographs of Vancouver on the walls and that distinct smell of cleaning detergent that every hotel around the globe has. 

“Tell me, what do you think it meant when I sucked your cock, all those years ago?” Emil asks, his mind calm, his fists relaxing. The bitter taste of come ghosts on his tongue. 

“Shut your hole.” Mickey’s knuckles are white. “We were teenagers back then. Things… things have changed.” His cheeks are so red they look bruised.

A smile is blooming on Emil’s lips, he can feel the familiar shift in his facial muscles like slipping into a favourite pair of sneakers. “Not for me.” 

“Jesus Christ. You’re sick. Stay away from me and Sara.” Each sentence is spat out with more bile than the last one. “Seriously, you disgust me.”

Why Emil doesn’t walk away at this point, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s because Mickey is so handsome and so fierce, a dangerous animal who protects what he loves with bared teeth. Maybe he’s sick of being a doormat, being nice Emil. Maybe he’s just plain stupid. “Well, I’m not the one fucking my –”

Mickey flies forward and punches him in the face. 

A thousand splendid suns explode under Emil’s skin and the force of the impact makes him stagger backwards until he crashes into the wall of the lobby. The receptionist is nowhere to be seen. Nobody is to be seen, actually. It’s only one Emil and one furious Italian who stares at his own fist as if he can’t believe what he just did. 

With a groan, Emil touches his face. He once broke his cheekbone as a child when falling off a tree, and this feels nothing like it. It’s gonna turn into a pretty bruise later though. “What the heck, Michele.”

Maybe it’s the sound of Emil’s voice that wakes him up, but suddenly Mickey has the decency to look as shell-shocked as Emil feels. His eyes turn wide and he slumps onto the couch closest to him. His hands are shaking. “Look, man, I’m sorry, but –”

Emil raises the hand that’s not occupied with his face. Nothing is really broken but that doesn’t mean a simple sorry makes everything right again. He takes a last look at Mickey who’s sitting on the couch with slumped shoulders, staring at his fist. It must hurt a lot. Somewhere deep inside Emil there’s a flutter of sympathy. 

He quickly kills it before it launches. 

“I’m finished,” he murmurs, not sure whether he means figure skating, the Crispinos, or both. What he knows is that he needs to get out of here and leave this mess behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is everyone doing with all the terms I’m using and not explaining? :D


	6. Yuri

Yuri’s friends are a blessing, but they’re far away and calling them only helps so much. So he locks himself in his room when he’s not training or crying into his protein shakes and stalks Seung-Gil online. His Instagram selfies are just too beautiful.

After Seung-Gil blocks him he gets himself half a dozen fake accounts and then, after getting blocked again on at least three of them, he goes on a social media detox because he realises he’s going nuts. Under his bed piles of tissues grow into come-caked mountains. When he talks about his obsession, Mila calls him _catatonic_ , Otabek says he’s _broken-hearted_. Seung-Gil is like an all-consuming fire and he’s afraid to suffocate in his smoke. 

The one person who really starts picking up the pieces is Coach Yuuri. Yuri is not able to thank him properly for what he’s doing and in the back of his mind he knows that he probably never will be. He’s too occupied with switching from anger to despair to anger again. More than once Yuuri suffers more than he deserves from an objective point of view. 

But he stays. He offers Yuri a shoulder to cry on when he starts weeping in the rink’s toilets, and listens to Yuri when he waxes lyrical about Seung-Gil’s perfect eyebrows over half a bottle of vodka and a bowl of roasted sunflower seeds. Yuuri only learns bits and pieces, never the whole story, but he _cares_. 

“I know you don’t wanna hear it, but it gets better,” he says and wipes the tears off Yuri’s face. Then he drags him into a firm embrace that Yuri only accepts because he’s completely wasted.

However, the only thing that really helps is hurling himself into his training and into the preparation for the competition season. Yuri tries to force Viktor to coach him on Sundays too instead of lounging on the sofa with Yuuri, but Viktor refuses, so Yuri bribes the caretaker Alexej Petrovich to hand over the his spare key and trains on his own, hour after hour. He increases the difficulty of his programs until he’s constantly pushing his limits, his feet never stop bleeding and the team medic turns whiter than a sheet of paper when she examines him. But skating is better than crying, and better than jerking off, and certainly better than crying while jerking off. 

At Worlds Yuri carves out another gold medal for his ever-growing collection and desperately tries not to look to his right on the podium. Because there’s Seung-Gil, accepting silver and resolutely avoiding looking to the left. 

Yuri skips the interviews and lets Viktor deal with the aftermath. He doesn’t go to the banquet either, the thought of seeing Seung-Gil there too scary and too humiliating and overpowering any possible fun he’d have with Otabek and Mila. Thank fuck they understand that he only wants to be alone, get thoroughly drunk and have one day off from talking about his goddamn feelings. 

The evening in the dimly-lit, near-empty hotel bar starts with overpriced whiskey and soothing quiet. Although the banquet is happening only a few metres down the hall, it is strangely peaceful here, Yuri muses as he empties another tumbler. The alcohol burns its way into his stomach, making him numb. The barkeeper, a buxom blonde in her late thirties, watches him drink with a sympathetic look on her face, but she is enough of a professional to know when small talk isn’t wanted, so she only makes sure his glass is never empty.

The effect of half a dozen drinks becomes noticeable around eleven, which is also exactly the time when the banquet hall usually turns from a harmless room into a hotbed of sin. Before Yuri can grieve the fact that he’s not there to fuck the cute ice dancer from Sweden he’s known for ages – and actually admit to himself that he only wants to fuck one person on this planet – he burps, slips off the bar stool and hurries to the bathroom. 

He throws up in one of the two stalls without locking the door, the smell of his own vomit making him retch anew. How stupid can one person be? Yuri, of all people, should know that alcohol has never solved a single problem, especially when considering what happened to his father. When he’s only bringing up bile, he gets up and rinses his mouth out. “Holy fuck.” His forehead is glistening with sweat.

Splashing some cold water on his face helps a bit, but then he washes his hands and the soap smells of rose buds, and a second later he’s crying again. In the neon light of the wash room he notices that he’s got bits of vomit in his bangs. With trembling fingers he picks it out and washes the strands under the tap. Thank God for the stylist who suggested cutting his hair would bring out his facial features more, or he’d have to wash his whole head to get rid of everything. His chest hurts so much that breathing is difficult. Fuck Coach Yuuri and fuck that everything will get better, nothing is fine and nothing is ever going to be. 

“Do you wanna be alone or shall I bring you a glass of water?”

Yuri whirls around. Behind him stands a figure skater, one of the mediocre ones whose name is buried somewhere deep in Yuri’s subconscious, probably drowned in alcohol. The friendly blue eyes look familiar, the badly-made-up black eye does not. Yuri wipes his mouth and sniffles. _Hasn't he retired? Has he been in a fistfight? Erik? Elmar? Why can’t I come up with the fucking name?_

The man looks at him with undisguised interest. “I didn’t wanna butt in. I just wanted to piss in peace,” he says with a cute accent which sounds softer than Yuri’s own, and reaches out his hand. “I’m Emil Nekola, by the way.”

Yuri stares at the calloused palm and the long fingers. His face must convey complete confusion because Emil snorts, once, before he’s in control of his facial features again. 

“I can tell when someone’s forgotten my name.” Emil holds out a wad of toilet paper. “Here.”

Yuri inhales audibly, the simple gesture pulling at his heartstrings. He’s completely trashed, how embarrassing. If he were sober and three years younger, he’d shout at Emil to piss the fuck off, and kick his ass for good measure. Instead, he accepts the toilet paper with trembling fingers and wipes his eyes. “Thanks. I’m Yuri Plisetsky.”

Emil bellows a laughter as if this was the funniest thing he’s heard all night. “You don’t need to tell me, everyone knows you. We’ve even been on the podium together once, but I had a beard then. How much did you have?”

“Too much.”

“Why? I’ve heard you won today.”

Fuck, the floodgates are open once again, and Yuri Plisetsky, nineteen years old, World Champion of Men’s Figure Skating, cries because of a broken heart. In a hotel toilet, in front of another skater he doesn’t really know.

“Oh.” Emil bites his bottom lip. “Sorry. Was it the wrong thing to say? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I can leave. Shall I –”

“Stay.” 

Why not? Yuri has already completely embarrassed himself already, so it’s not like it matters. He’s grabbed Emil’s sun-tanned arm with too much force; he eases up his grip, sniffs loudly and tries a smile. “Please.”

***

“Why is it we’ve never talked?” Yuri nibbles nuts and sips on a sticky sweet, non-alcoholic cocktail with an embarrassing name. Marina, the barkeeper, made it for him after Emil gave her the instructions. He’d charmed her name out of her after two minutes and her phone number after three. Yuri isn’t sure yet if he’s supposed to describe this behaviour as offensively sociable or shamelessly pushy. 

Emil is drinking wheat beer, the foam sticking to his top lip. “Honestly, you’ve always been a bit… well, scary.” He laughs and wipes his mouth. “The way you talk with Katsuki and Nikiforov – I never wanted to stand in your way when…” He stops for a moment, thinking, maybe of a way to word things nicely. That Emil is a Nice guy with a capital N is obvious. Yuri can’t resist rolling his eyes. Nice guys. Blergh.

“Remember the year after Barcelona? When they took gold and silver from you? I only watched from the other side of the rink, but man, you had a complete meltdown. Even Altin was afraid of you.”

Yuri tales a sip of his disgusting drink, secretly wishing for some vodka in it so that he doesn’t have to think about what happened. Still, he remembers it and everything that followed clear as day: the shouting match with Yakov and the articles in the press that called him a _loose cannon_ and a _complete maniac_. Two days after that he got his haircut and his first lip piercing. The piercing got infected and the resulting fever made him miss half a season. Yakov scolded him constantly and then quit when he realised he couldn’t keep Yuri under control any more, which resulted in him fleeing to his summer house on Mallorca with Lilia and leaving Yuri in the care of Viktor, who was delighted to get another chance at coaching. 

That Emil makes Yuri actually face up to this is very brave. He also seems to be honest to the bone, a character trait Yuri likes already. Honest people are better than ass kissers. “They provoked me with their stupid choreographies, I had to do something,” he says and hopes to sound convincingly indifferent. 

“You had to throw your medal at Katsuki, call him an old fart and storm off?” Emil raises an eyebrow, not believing a word. “A bit over the top, don’t you think?”

“That’s what I am.” It’s true, so why not admit it? Fuck, when he found out Otabek wasn’t gay, he got himself an eagle tattoo on his lower back to cope with it. Viktor almost fainted when he saw it for the first time. 

“Over the top, rude, but the best skater since Nikiforov. And only a human being,” Emil says, and it sounds genuine. “Let’s drink to that.”

“You’re damn right.” Yuri raises his glass. 

***

When Emil offers to walk Yuri back to his room, he’s almost sobered up; only a faint ache in his throat and a dull throbbing behind his eyes remaining. It’s four by now and he’s getting sleepy. Focusing on Emil’s voice is difficult, especially as Emil seems to forget how to speak English when he’s tired and slips back to Czech more frequently. 

After paying, Emil walks in front of him, looking back from time to time to make sure Yuri’s still there. Yuri follows obediently, wondering who cuts Emil’s hair like that. Probably some girlfriend. He recalls that the female Crispino is friends with him, maybe she does it while she tells him a joke or strokes his hair or kisses him on the neck. 

In the elevator, Yuri watches his reflection. Thank fuck he looks better than before, and not half as desperate. Emil happily hums a song, smiles when he realises Yuri is listening, and starts singing in a surprisingly clear voice. It’s apparently some kind of Czech pop song, but even with the help of Russian the lyrics don’t make the slightest sense to Yuri. 

Maybe he can’t understand a single word because he now has a horrible deja-vu of a very similar situation in an elevator, of a man paying his debts and leaving him in shambles. He swallows. His palms feel damp and he wipes them on his pants. What will happen when they arrive at his room?

Emil doesn’t seem to notice his growing discomfort, and as he leads the way to room 212 he makes sure not to walk too fast. “Where’s your key?” he asks.

Yuri hands it to him and watches him open the door. His stomach rolls, but it’s not the alcohol, and so he takes a deep breath and takes a tentative step. The plush carpet muffles every sound. Quickly he takes off his shoes and places them neatly next to each other. 

In the meantime Emil has slipped inside the door, got out of his boots and made himself at home on Yuri’s sofa. “Nice,” he says. “Russia seems to have more money than us.” He already looks as if he’s been a part of this room forever, looking comfortable against the plush cushions, smiling, always smiling. And he doesn’t seem to be leaving any time soon. He’s even taken his shoes off, and his smoking jacket. 

So? What does this mean? What does Emil want? 

Yuri hangs his jacket on the hanger, then unbuttons his shirt because it is obvious why Emil is still here. With a few steps, Yuri crosses the room and falls to his knees.

Emil has a horrified look on his face. Well, horrified isn’t quite the right word, but Yuri can’t find a better one, no matter how hard he tries. 

He’ll like it when Yuri starts, they always do. Seung-Gil would’ve liked it, had Yuri only been allowed to show him how skillful he is. Maybe Emil’s hung and the night will end perfectly. Maybe Yuri’ll even get in the mood himself. A man can dream, can’t he?

Yuri places his left hand onto Emil’s knee and reaches for his belt buckle, wetting his own bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Maybe he should take his lip piercing out first. The tongue piercing stays in, most guys like the feel of it. 

He freezes when Emil grabs his wrist. 

“What are you doing?” Emil whispers. His blue eyes are wide.

Anger boils in Yuri’s stomach before he can do anything about it. He stares at Emil from his degrading position, tugging against the grip on his wrist. Emil just grabs his other wrist and Yuri makes a frustrated groan when he realises that he’s overpowered. Usually people are delighted when he offers to blow them, not… Whatever Emil is. He can’t tell. He can’t tell anything any more. 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he manages to spit out, tears stinging in his eyes. “Isn’t this what I owe you for a night of fucking talking and paying all of my damn drinks?”

“No,” Emil simply says, holding him in place. “You misunderstood everything.”

 _Misunderstood. Again_. “Do you think I’m ugly?” Yuri asks and realises he’s sobbing.

“What – No. That’s not it.” It sounds helpless. “Don’t cry. Please.” Emil lets go of Yuri’s left wrist to wipe the tears from his face with his calloused fingers. Yuri lets him and doesn’t know why. “I just wanna be here, with you. Talk. Like we did before. Oh God, please put on a shirt, will you.” He drags Yuri to his feet and makes him stand. 

Suddenly the air inside the room is freezing. Yuri swallows hard. Then swallows again. He frantically presses a hand against his mouth when he feels what’s coming. With a desperate moan he whips around in the direction of the bathroom as the remnants of the fucking mocktail and bile and dread from deep down make their way up his esophagus. It takes all his willpower not to open his mouth and spew it all out immediately despite the acid burn in his nostrils, which makes him wanna throw up again. He reaches the toilet just in time. 

Eventually he’ll have to pay Emil back for not walking away. Instead he quietly follows Yuri to the bathroom and kneels down next to him. He’ll also have to thank him for holding back Yuri’s bangs while Yuri heaves everything into the toilet, retching, crying, feeling Emil’s hand on his shoulder blades, listening to reassuring whispers in Czech. 

Afterwards, they sit on the couch, not touching much except for Emil’s fingers brushing against Yuri’s from time to time, just to show he’s still there. Yuri gets lulled into sleep when Emil tells him a story about hiking in the Alps, spotting a chamois buck and eating wild raspberries. 

***

After that night Emil forces himself into Yuri’s life like Potya and soon Yuri regrets giving him his contact information. Whereas the cat carries in dead birds and half-dead rats, Emil sends canned Czech beer via UPS, shares links to videos about extreme sports, snaps from the time they go clubbing in Prague and from his own holiday with his best friend Kveta in Bulgaria. Yuri tries desperately to be annoyed about all this attention, but when he figures out he can’t escape he accepts his fate. 

Also, he’s secretly pleased. (Not that he’d ever tell Emil, no way in hell.)

The season ends in June with one silver medal (damn Seung-Gil) and two more gold medals for Yuri. When Otabek, Mila and Yuri decide to travel to Austria to celebrate and relax there before their wedding, and Emil promptly invites himself along, Yuri can’t be mad, not even for a second. Not when Emil and Mila shrivel in the hotel’s hot springs on the first evening, become fast friends and terrorise Yuri and Otabek with inside jokes that nobody except them understands. Yuri never finds out what happened to make them bond so quickly while he and Otabek share some cloudy apple juice in the hotel bar and he doesn’t dare to ask.

Emil knows the best bars and the most picturesque hiking trails, although some of them are too adventurous for Yuri, who only ever took a stroll in the Summer Garden in St. Petersburg before and called it hiking. 

Emil, however, leaps buck-like over roots and rocks while Yuri tumbles over them and curses everything, the mountains, the roots and rocks, and Emil, of course. The bastard is perfectly accustomed to this altitude. In his worn-out hiking clothes, with wrap-around sunglasses and his mountain climber beard he looks like the kind of guy who’d sleep outside in some ratty tent and kill boars with his bare, veiny hands. Even his shoes look professional and a hundred times better than Yuri’s stupid sneakers that make him slip even in the lightest drizzle.

Yuri makes a face. Down in the valley, the village they’re staying at looks tiny. The summit cross and the end of their hike are still far away. He moans. Why is it so fucking hot in the goddamn Alps? Hiking is shit anyway and he doesn’t even have any reception to send a sweaty selfie to Mila and Otabek. “Why didn’t I stay at the hotel? Fuck, I hate this!” He went with Emil because he wanted to give his two other friends some time together, but lounging in the whirlpool with them would have been so much better. 

“I’ll tell you a story if you want, to distract you,” Emil says and slows to let Yuri catch up, his sloppy man bun bobbing on his head. ”Just ask me anything.” 

The bastard isn’t even sweating, Yuri notices, grinding his teeth. “What the hell should I ask you?”

“Don’t care, something you wanna know. Time passes faster that way.”

Yuri sidesteps a blackberry bush that’s grown over half the path. Or at least he tries – he’s so tired already that the thorns still stab him through his pants despite his best efforts. He swears in Russian. “I don’t wanna ask you anything, asshole.”

“Hey, it was you who wanted to come along. I didn’t force you, so be nice,” Emil says, his smile only half masking that he’s hurt. Fuck. 

They walk on in silence. Yuri knows Emil is right to scold him, but can’t yet admit it. He thinks about the last time when anyone said anything about him being mean. Yuuri and Viktor usually ignore his tantrums, they learned over the years, and Minami is too afraid to fight with him. He’s never mean to Otabek, not any more, not after _finding out_ , and Mila, well, Mila is basically family and knows how to handle him. A heavy dose of sarcasm usually works best.

The only other person who knows how to stop Yuri is his grandpa. Whenever he’s angry or unfair or just plain mean, grandpa gets out of his rocking chair and stares him down. He has never raised his hand nor his voice to calm Yuri down. _Watch your language, Yuratchka. Not in my house. I don’t deserve this_. 

Yuri feels as if Grandpa was here, scolding him, and his cheeks turn hot. “Guess I shouldn’t have called you an asshole,” he murmurs. This is nature, and nature is Emil’s house, isn’t it? He looks like a satyr with his lopsided grin and his tanned forearms. 

As the wood clears, they pass steadily fewer trees beside them on the mountain path, and are soon above the treeline. “If you don’t want to ask me anything, I’m gonna ask you something,” Emil says. It’s a peace offering. 

Yuri waits, but is only greeted by silence. The old impatience bubbles in his stomach, although he knows Emil pretty well by now and is sure that he’s only searching for the right words. And so Yuri focuses on walking and not stepping into cowpats as the wind ruffles his hair. These sneakers were expensive, goddamn. Fucking nature. 

“Why did you drink that much, back then?”

There’s another question, unspoken, hovering in the air. 

“Why are you bringing this up _now_?” Yuri growls and is immediately sorry about it. He throws Emil an apologetic smile and hopes he will accept it. For days Yuri hasn’t thought about Seung-Gil, hasn’t allowed himself to. Emil’s question opens an old wound he thought had healed already. Now it’s throbbing again. 

Emil kicks a pebble and watches it vanish in the grass next to the path. “Pure interest. Or my helper syndrome. Pick one.” He turns to Yuri, his face open and friendly. “I had to ask you one day, and now that we are friends… We are friends, aren’t we?”

“How old are you, three?” Yuri snorts. “What would you call yourself when I take you with me on a trip with my two best friends?” When texting him every evening? When telling him almost everything that’s on his mind for the last few months? And when on a fucking hike with him, more or less voluntarily?

Yuri’d rather bite off his own tongue than say this out loud. Emil knows anyway. 

The grin on Emil’s face is brighter than the alpine sun. “Then you’ll tell me what happened that night, right?” 

It’s not the drama Emil is interested in, he’s different than other people that way. It’s a strange, but genuine interest in Yuri as a person that makes him ask, the same interest that made him walk Yuri back to his hotel room, and stay with him even after the embarrassing almost-blowjob they silently agreed never to speak of again. 

Still, Yuri rolls his eyes because he has a reputation to maintain.

They walk on, the top of the mountain still horribly far away. A brown and white cow stares at them from the right, breathing calmly. Her brown eyes are as soft as Emil’s, who’s waiting patiently for Yuri’s answer. 

“You are horrible,” Yuri sighs. His chest feels tight and it’s not the altitude that’s causing it. There is some phantom pain that lurks there, something he cannot grasp, he mustn’t grasp, he will not grasp. For lack of any fitting words he lets out another sigh. “I’m really bad at this.” 

“At what?”

“At talking about my fucking feelings and all that shit.” Maybe he’s never learned, maybe he never will. His family is not good at it either and so it rarely happens. Coach Yuuri is a talented listener, that’s maybe why it works with him, but most of the times Yuri has opened up he’s been drunk, which always loosens his tongue. Otabek doesn’t need many words and Mila is different, it’s always so easy with her. Yuri wishes Emil could just look inside him so that he wouldn’t have to explain any of this. 

At the next slope, Emil stops and turns around. “Look.” There’s another hill and behind it, there’s the top of the mountain. Yuri can already see the black dots that are Alpine choughs; they’re circling the summit cross and screech while trying to steal bread crusts and sausage ends from the people having a break there. Not that Yuri knew what an Alpine chough was before this hike. Emil, however, knows a shitload about birds and plants as well and can’t believe that Yuri can barely tell a chicken apart from a crow, vowing to educate him as long as they’re here.

There’s a bench on the side of the path and they sit down together by unspoken agreement. The air is crisp and smells of something Yuri cannot name. He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs to the brim, counts to three, exhales, and feels as lightheaded as if he’s just smoked a cigarette. He begins to understand why people buy a house in the countryside. A breath of air without inhaling tons of particle matter is kind of awesome. 

“Shall I tell you a secret? I wasn’t at the bar because it had good toilets. I was hiding.” Emil can’t look Yuri in the face, his ears turning red as he clutches the wood of the bench with his fingers. Yuri catches himself thinking that it’s somehow cute seeing his rough-looking friend so embarrassed. “From Mickey and Sara.”

No more words are necessary: everyone knows the rumors about the Crispino twins, and with the way Emil is telling and not telling him something important at the same time, Yuri can more or less figure out what happened. Also, there was that black eye. “Who punched you in the face?”

“Mickey.”

“I’m sorry, that’s shitty,” Yuri says, because what else could he say after hearing something like that? After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out to pat Emil on the shoulder. He is surprisingly warm under Yuri’s fingertips and it is only then that Yuri realises they have not touched for a long time, not since the hotel room. 

Emil moves a little closer. “I always thought he’d pick me. Or that she would. Or both.” They’re almost the same height, although Emil is broader than Yuri with muscular upper arms and tan lines and has far more facial hair now that his trademark beard is growing back. Yuri sees every stray hair and the fine lines around his eyes when Emil is finally looking at him. “But they’ve always been enough for each other.” Emil turns his head and stares down into the valley where hikers move up and down the hill, small as ants. “Look how far we’ve come today.”

Yuri observes Emil’s chiseled profile, the fluffy, sun-bleached mop of hair, the flaky skin of his lips, the freckles on his nose. Everything about him is completely honest and open. “I think I should tell you about my crush on Seung-Gil Lee,” he says. 

 

***

Summer in Almaty is hot, humid, and absolutely not the place where Yuri would choose to have his own wedding. But Mila wants it to happen there – apple orchard, Chinese lanterns, catering, a fucking dream wedding – and so Yuri grits his teeth and comes when he’s sent for. He, Viktor, Yuuri and Minami board a plane in St. Petersburg, and Yuri ignores them for the entire length of the flight in favour of his phone, listens to Otabek’s mixtapes and watches videos of Emil. That idiot spent the rest of the summer rafting down white-water rapids and biking down every mountain he could find. 

Emil greets him at the gateway to the Altin residence. He’s wearing a lilac smoking jacket and has trimmed his beard. With his long hair he looks like a naturalist accidentally transplanted here from the countryside. After hugging him as if his life depended on it, Emil puts a single wild rose into Yuri’s buttonhole. “I’ve got a flask with apple juice in my pocket,” he whispers although no one is close enough to eavesdrop. “In case you need something to get drunk on when everything becomes too sappy.”

Yuri laughs. He hasn’t had a single drop of alcohol since the evening after the World Championship and they both know it. “I won’t say no.” How things are looking right now, he’s gonna need it in approximately five minutes. 

The ceremony takes place outside under a canopy of white fabric. The sky is bluer than a postcard. Mila looks perfect in her white designer dress with pinned-up hair. Otabek is just beaming. 

“This is exactly how I picture my own wedding,” Emil murmurs. In front of them sits Otabek’s massive extended family and Mila’s only living relative, her second cousin Olga Ivanova. Also, there are Lilia and Yakov, the former looking proud as fuck, the latter trying and failing to sob discreetly into a gigantic handkerchief. 

“I didn’t know you were that sappy,” Yuri whispers back. Before Emil is able to defend himself, Otabek’s grandma, who is said to be completely deaf, turns around and throws them a scolding look that leaves them in silent hysterics. 

A hot afternoon turns into a mild evening that ends in a moderate night. Colourful chains of lights illuminate the apple orchard and a string quartet plays for the elderly relatives until a considerably drunk Otabek gets up behind the DJ console to the cheers of the crowd. Even in his intoxicated state, he still manages to play much too fancy music for such an event. Yuri would have preferred some 90s Eurotrash or any other shit to rock out to, not this tasteful but boring stuff. 

The other wedding guests don’t share his concerns, they jump and dance and laugh. A lot of alcohol is consumed, a ton of _piroshky_ and _beschbarmak_ is eaten, gallons of suspiciously bright-coloured cocktails are mixed and consumed. The enormous wedding cake Mila wanted to have and bragged about constantly falls apart when they try to cut it. 

Eventually, Yuri is infected by the lively mood. He dances with Emil, his jacket long abandoned on a chair somewhere. He has no idea where his shoes are. His bare feet are aching. Emil laughs, grabs his hip and drags him closer, whirls him around, the fairy lights all around them glittering in his eyes. 

Yuri touches Emil, his arms, his shoulders, his ears adorned with the small black earrings Yuri gifted to him. They suit him perfectly, and his sweaty fringe makes him look like a very cute, overexcited teenager. When Yuuri and Viktor dance next to them and come too close, Emil leads Yuri away, always holding him tight. Then, for the first time, something flutters in Yuri’s stomach, the echo of a feeling he vaguely recognises. 

“Are you ready, party people!” Otabek shouts at the beginning of the next song. The sight of Mila staring at her husband in complete and utter disbelief makes Yuri crack up so hard he can’t catch his breath. 

“I think we need a break,” Emil wheezes.

Yuri is still in Emil’s arms, which feels surprisingly pleasant. Why didn’t he start touching Emil sooner? “Come on,” Yuri says and drags Emil away from the pavillion and into the apple orchard, away from all the guests. He’s been here often and knows where the best spot is – under the walnut tree on the hill behind the estate, where you can see the stars and listen to the cicadas. Once, years ago, Yuri wanted to kiss Otabek there because he was young, confused and desperately wanted to know how his best friend tasted, but couldn’t muster up the courage to just lean over and do it. 

The memory is a vague one now, with Emil next to him. Yuri leads him through the night barefooted, beneath them the buzz and the bass of the party. Up here it is calmer, only a few rodents scampering through the darkness and Almaty’s lights glittering beyond. Yuri’s toes are wet with dew. 

When he reaches his destination, he drops onto the grass and leans against the tree trunk. For a moment he closes his eyes. He is genuinely content, and not only because he’s happy for Otabek. 

Yuri signals Emil to sit down and Emil obediently does as he’s told, leaning against Yuri. He smells his armpit and wrinkles his nose in disgust. “We stink.”

“I couldn’t care less.” It’s true, they’re sweaty, but the night is warm and Yuri can’t stop smiling. He searches and finds Emil’s hand in the darkness, strokes his fingers with his thumb. When Emil turns his hand around to take his, he explores the lines of his palm, each and every scar and callus. “This is nice.”

“Yes.” Emil shifts next to him, leans over and touches Yuri’s cheek as if Yuri was something delicate that might accidentally break. Their faces are only centimetres apart. Emil’s breath smells like mocktail. When he swallows his Adam’s apple bobs. “Can I…”

Yuri closes his eyes in answer.

A few tentative licks from Yuri make Emil’s chapped lips soft again. He sighs when Emil nibbles on his bottom lip and plays with the piercing in it, and moans into Emil’s mouth as Emil lets his hand wander under Yuri’s shirt. 

This… this is nice. There are no romance novel butterflies, no rom-com spillover of feelings to cloud his judgement, just a strange calm he hasn’t felt in an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to violetnyte for valuable input on the puking scene!


	7. Chapter 7

“I think I accidentally befriended Yuri Plisetsky,” Emil says and tries to convey a look of absolute innocence while all hell breaks loose in Switzerland. Satisfied, he sits back in his office chair, looks into the laptop camera, and waits until Chris has stopped babbling incoherently and Max is finished giving him his trademark knowing-Max look. 

It is hard to believe what happened after the _Crispino Incident_ , as Kveta has cleverly dubbed it, but he’s glad he didn’t hide in his hotel room when things went awkward with the twins. 

Well, awkward is the understatement of the century. The black eye Mickey generously gifted to Emil bloomed on his eye faster than mold on an organic lemon. It took Emil half an hour in front of the tiny bathroom mirror and a dozen layers of extra-strong makeup to cover it in an acceptable way before deciding to hit the Grand Prix Final banquet anyway. Chris and Max were not there this time, but he was feeling alive, and he had no intention of sulking in his room all night. 

The Crispinos were nowhere to be seen and Emil didn’t want to think about them seeking comfort in each others’ arms. So he grabbed a drink from the bar, wandered around with his brightest smile, was greeted by several acquaintances, had a beer with Ludwig Engels from the German ice dancing team and spotted Laduška and Vendula, two of his old rinkmates. 

For some time he listened to their chatter about the Finale, Danek, and the home rink. “We’re missing you,” Vendula said when there was nothing else to share and made a semi-convincingly sad face. “It’s not the same when you’re not around. You were always so cheerful.”

“There will be another one to cheer you up,” Emil answered and smiled. “Maybe this one will even shave regularly.” The girls chuckled politely at his lame joke and looked into their glasses. Emil’s eye hurt but they didn’t comment about it, maybe because of courtesy or maybe because he had taken the time to acquire a certain knowledge about covering bruises over the years. They didn’t look as if they wanted to talk about it. “Well, if you excuse me, I have an early flight tomorrow. Say hi to Danek from me.”

He kissed their cheeks and waved them goodbye and then fled the hall, asking himself why had even come. His room and its lonely quiet seemed appealing all of a sudden, but his hotel was a few streets away and he was tired. He also needed to go to the toilet next to the hotel bar because he’d had too many drinks and wanted to take a piss before leaving.

“Well, the rest is history,” he says and grins, because it’s crazy to think that Yuri Nikolayev Plisetsky, of all people, had hid inside the toilets because of a mental breakdown. He doesn’t share the breakdown bit because it’s none of their business and Emil doesn’t need Nikiforov to know all the juicy details. He also leaves out the part where Yuri wanted to blow him as a thanks for a night of good company and the one where Yuri vomited his heart out afterwards. Some things are better kept secret.

“He’s pretty nice. We drank and we talked, and I got his number.”

_That’s not the whole story_ , Max’s eyes say. 

_I’ll text you later_ , Emil’s eyes answer while Chris is still busy gasping. 

Eventually he gets a phone call from SRF and excuses himself, but not without telling Emil he’s going to call him back later. As soon as he’s left the room, Max laughs out loud. “You’re not going to tell Chris.” It’s not a question, but merely a sentence stating the facts.

Emil missed Max’s pimples and talking to him without Chris’s radiating presence shining on them. “I usually only share secrets with people who either birthed or blew me.”

“Then I’m glad I fall into one of the categories.” How handsome Max is, even through the distorted lense of his webcam. Lazily he leans back in the office chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Want to share all the juicy details?”

“What exactly do you think ‘I accidentally befriended Yuri Plisetsky’ means?” 

Max smiles apologetically. “Oh, I think I misunderstood. What exactly is it you did that night? Didn’t you say you spent it together?”

Well, he’s not wrong to assume that something other than talking happened, but he doesn’t need to know that. Yet. Maybe ever. “Well… We talked. A lot. And I got to know him better.”

“And what did you find out?”

One of the first thing Emil learned is that Yuri is not a happy person. Emil wouldn’t describe himself as very happy either but Yuri is an entirely different nutcase. It wasn’t the tears streaming down his cheeks that gave the impression. It was written in the dark circles under his eyes and in his lips, thin even when he was laughing. “It's his aura, if I believed in crap like auras. Do you know what I mean?” God, Yuri even looked sad when he bragged about his achievements as a skater.

“Are you going to text him?” Max asks. He’s sorting through things on his desktop, occupied but still listening. Sheets are rustling when he puts them in a neat stack and files them in a blue folder labelled _Steuererklärung_. 

With a sigh, Emil leans forward and props up his chin in his palms. “I have no idea.”  
Yuri and he didn’t exactly talk about what made Yuri drown his feelings in liquor and now Emil can’t ask any more because the right moment is gone. He hasn’t written Yuri a single message since their night together where everything smelled of vomit and sadness and mouthwash and Yuri was curled into a ball on the sofa with Emil next to him, guarding his sleep. 

Max looks up from his tax papers. “You should. He seems like an interesting person when he’s not in ice tiger mode.”

***

Emil wants to follow Max’s advice and write a message to Yuri, but he doesn’t know how to break the ice. _Hi, I’m the guy who held your hair when you vomited your brains out?_ Scratch that. _Hey, sorry I didn’t say hi earlier?_ What is he even thinking? _Hi there?_ He won’t get a price for creativity with that one. 

Maybe he should just send a funny cat video? Everyone knows Yuri Plisetsky loves cats, right? 

When his fingers still seem to be unable to push the correct keys, he sighs and calls Kveta. “I can't bring myself to text Yuri Plisetsky,” he says. 

“I’m not surprised. He looks exactly like a male version of me and you’re intimidated by me,” she answers with a voice that’s so dry it could instantaneously remove all water from his laundry. In the background he hears the clatter of dishes. It’s Saturday, which is the only day when Kveta cooks elaborate dishes for herself, at least when she doesn’t have to work the night shift. “Well, I can’t write a message to myself. Get it done and text me when you’re finished. Love you.” She hangs up.

Emil stares at his phone, because a) Kveta is right, she and Yuri share the same hair colour, bright eyes and abrasive nature and b) why did he never notice that until now? He opens Yuri’s Instagram again, searches for selfies and finds far too many. It’s fun to look at the sharp, pleasant edges of Yuri's face. Emil likes the one at the rink most, where Yuri is sweaty and smiling because he just managed something awesome ( _#ididit #takethatvictor #icetigerofrussia_ ). Emil can’t find out what it is that was managed, but is it really important? He sympathises with the raw happiness of achieving something difficult because he has experienced it himself, over and over again. 

What a strange thought, having something in common with Yuri Plisetsky. 

_You shouldn’t give strangers your number._

He throws his phone on the couch as soon as he’s finished typing and hides his face in his hands. Yuri Plisetsky is a legend. He’s such a legend that he didn’t even know Emil’s name because Emil is completely insignificant in Yuri’s life. 

His phone vibrates and gives him a miniature heart attack. 

_you’re no stranger, idiot_  
i vomited my heart out with you eavesdropping/watching  
did you get the stench out of your stuff  
because I had to throw away my shit afterwards  
#iamrichsoidontcare 

Well, this is going way easier than expected. 

***

In between video shoots for his channel with Kveta in Bulgaria, business meetings with the Red Bull _Dolomitenmann_ team in Austria and Kveta judging him for planning to take part in such a sexist event that doesn’t allow any women, Emil starts to get to know Yuri better. 

Yuri is online 24/7, which makes communication with him easy. He’s a hard worker with a tendency to overachieve, like most skaters, and he’d rather rip out his tongue than admit he loves his coaches and his teammates like family. He’s fond of his grandpa, who seems to be the reason why Yuri is pushing himself so hard. He owns an ancient cat which seems to be asleep 23 hours a day.

Emil receives many pictures. Some of them make sense (a bowl of red and yellow apples, Elena Dergaj and some other rinkmates after training, the sunset over the river Neva), some don’t (a half-eaten Snickers bar, a dead crow, a random hole in a random brick wall); all of them are aesthetically pleasing. Yuri asks about Emil’s family and friends and shows polite interest in Emil’s channel and work for Red Bull. In conclusion, he’s kind, and nicer than one would expect from his outside face, the one that Max calls _Ice Tiger Mode_. 

When Yuri posts a selfie with Mila and Otabek and adds going to the _Alps with my #besties in two weeks #hikingsucks #idoitforthem #holidayintyrol_ , Emil’s brain switches to autopilot. Before he has time to think about it, he texts his Austrian _Dolomitenmann_ team and requests a meeting in Innsbruck around the time when Yuri will be there. 

_I’ll be in Tyrol when you are (business meeting, d’uh). Which hotel are you staying at?_

Yuri is lightning quick to text him the name. 

_i should probably warn you  
mila can be strange af with new people_

Reading the message a dozen times doesn’t make it any clearer. “Guess I’m going to find out what this is all about,” Emil mutters to himself, heart beating faster in anticipation. 

***

“Nekola, long time no see. Retirement suits you.” Otabek Altin shakes Emil’s hand and his mouth turns into something vaguely similar to a smile. Emil hopes he doesn’t notice how sweaty his palms are, but meeting Yuri’s best friends is more scary than he thought it would be. Both are beautiful, just like him, and they share a chemistry that makes Emil feel strangely left out.

No, he won’t allow that feeling, not here at this tiny train station in the middle of Austrian nowhere.

“Altin, being engaged suits _you_ ,” Emil says and smiles back. They’ve always been friendly albeit not friends, but things can change. He knows Otabek’s type and can play it easily; guys like him are emotionless on the outside but tend to be unchallenging to befriend, especially when presented with an extrovert like Emil.

As Yuri has warned him, Mila will be the bigger issue. She seems wary of the whole situation although she’s friendly, cracks jokes with Yuri, casually touches Emil and also requests sitting next to him in the taxi that takes them to their hotel. During the drive Otabek and Yuri chat about the past season. Mila’s body radiates heat and Emil constantly has the feeling he’s being poked in the ribs with a invisible switchblade. 

As soon as they’ve brought their luggage to their rooms, Mila clings to Emil’s arm. “You boys sure have to catch up,” she says to Otabek and Yuri. “My friend Emil and I are going to check out the spa.” 

Otabek imperceptibly raises an eyebrow, which makes all of Emil’s body hairs stand at once. “Good luck,” Yuri mouths and vanishes with his friend. 

Well, Emil was warned before the trip.

“Move,” says Mila.

Although the water in the whirlpool is warm, he’s slightly shuddering. Mila props herself on the side of the tub in her pink bikini, stretches out her obscenely long legs and sighs blissfully. Her toes are touching Emil’s, who’s hunched up as far away from her as possible. Bubbles bubble. There’s relaxing harp music and orange blossom in the air. A tray with grapes and glasses of cold, cucumber-infused spring water is standing on a side table right next to the whirlpool.

“You know I’m gonna break your arm if you break Yuri’s heart,” Mila says. “It’s a nice arm, I must admit, but I’ll do it anyway.”

Emil stares at his own extremity and gulps. “What if… What if he breaks mine?”

“That’s not what we’re talking about here,” she purrs, all smiles and straight teeth and a gaze like a loaded shotgun. 

Emil has no intention of breaking anything: heart, arms, or promises. Mila doesn't know that. She is Yuri's Kveta, always happy to commit a gruesome murder in the noble name of friendship. He would like to know if they ever had a thing going but isn’t stupid enough to ask. 

“I’m sure you know what happened,” Mila says.

Emil doesn’t know. “We’re not that close. Yet.” _Yes, confidence is good. Show her you aren’t afraid. God, she’s scary._ “I’d lie if I said I didn’t wanna know –”

She frowns.

“– but it’s none of my business. He’ll share when he’s ready.” He manages to finish without running out of breath. 

This was apparently the right answer. The switchblade is put away, the shotgun unloaded. Mila moves over to Emil until their hips touch. “Okay then.” With her breath hot on his ear, she puts her arm around his shoulder. “Now tell me about that Yuri look-alike that’s in all your Insta posts.”

***

The Alps work their magic as they always do. It must be the crisp clean air or the delicious Austrian food or the hotel’s Swiss pine beds that can lull even the most hardcore insomniac into a deep and dreamless slumber. Maybe it is the cozyness of the nameless village. Emil honestly doesn’t care what makes everyone – especially Mila – accepting and welcoming after the first night, but he embraces their new comradeship wholeheartedly. 

He enjoys Otabek’s calm presence on his morning runs and during his bike training sessions in the afternoon. He likes Mila’s cynical commentary about every topic imaginable and her dark humor. The best thing, however, is Yuri finally opening up, because it happens so unexpectedly while just the two of them are hiking. 

Legs burning from the steep path, lungs filled with fresh air, Emil confesses about the Crispino issue, letting the surrounding nature whisk away the lingering pain of it. As if following suit, Yuri _unfolds_ and explains why the current record holder and reigning king of the figure skating world had a mental breakdown in a hotel washroom.

It all comes down to love or obsession; the difference is hard to tell. Not that Emil necessarily gets why Seung-Gil Lee is someone to have a breakdown over, but he’s heard people say similar things about the Crispinos.

“Yeah, they’re basically basic,” Yuri says. 

“Watch your mouth,” Emil answers without any venom in his voice, because Yuri leans just a centimeter closer to silently apologise for what he’s just said, and that means some giant step for their young friendship, right? It’s still too early to pat Yuri’s silky hair, Emil decides, and just smiles secretly when Yuri closes his eyes and mutters an apology that could as well be an insult.

Emil is now a member of the Sovjet Pack, with all its consequences and spirit-induced headaches. Yuri is too proud to show it but he’s obviously impressed that Emil can hold his drink so well – Mila is no easy opponent, but Emil was trained by both Kveta and Chris – and happy that he’s getting along with both Mila and Otabek. 

He almost can’t hide his joy when Otabek invites Emil to his wedding over a hearty dinner consisting of venison goulash with chanterelle mushrooms and bread dumplings. “Would have brought him anyway as my plus one,” Yuri says, poking Otabek with his fork. 

Mila laughs.

“I’m honoured,” Emil says, his cheeks hot. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re not a hockey player with zero IQ.” Otabek is directing this towards Emil, who feels his face derail because he doesn’t know what this exactly means. Mila is basically hyperventilating by now and almost chokes on her wine. Yuri heaves up a ton of hissed swear words. The other patrons in the village inn start turning their heads. 

Otabek sighs, puts his cutlery aside and raises a hand to ruffle Yuri’s artistically tousled hair. “Calm down, Yura.” 

It’s surprising that Yuri doesn’t bite off Otabek’s fingers but more surprising is that he closes his mouth and his eyes to embrace the gentle gesture. Emil watches Otabek pat Yuri as if there was nothing about it. _There isn’t, dumbass_ , Emil’s brain announces, _Otabek has been Yuri’s friend for ages_. 

And still.

Mila kicks him under the table and Emil turns his head. She shakes her head just the tiniest bit, an even tinier knowing grin on her glossy lips.

“What?” Emil mouths, but Mila looks away and innocently plays with her napkin. She focuses on Otabek and Yuri instead, who have moved on to finishing their _Wildgulasch_ in peaceful unison. How a person can look graceful when gnawing on a giant piece of slaughtered deer is a mystery to Emil, but somehow Yuri can pull it off. Of course he can. He even looked graceful while dry-heaving, all those months back then. 

No, that’s bullshit. _No one_ looks graceful when they’re dry-heaving. 

But Yuri does. 

And then it hits Emil: that day, he didn’t only accidentally befriend Yuri Plisetsky, potty mouth, master figure skater, and keeper of feelings. 

He fell in love with him on the way as well. 

After all these years, Emil is an expert on secretly pining for someone, so he doesn’t let it show for the rest of the trip. Instead, he jokes and smiles and is good company. Before they break up their merry band of vacationers at the train station the next day, he makes Mila swear an oath of secrecy. 

“I won’t say anything,” she says. “But be warned. Yuri might be kinda slow, but not Crispino slow. He’ll realise sooner or later what’s going on.” 

Without waiting for a reaction, she grabs her backpack and gets on the train. The door closes behind her with a hiss, the train starts moving. Yuri is waving goodbye from behind a closed window, Otabek at his side with a knowing look on his face. Goddammit. Can everyone see what’s going on?

Emil waves after them until they are only a faint memory. 

***

“Could you please get your shit together?” The way Kveta stares at him suggests she wants to shove him into the nearest oak tree, which is understandable considering they’re in the Sumava Mountains, are going to bike down this slope in just a few minutes and Emil is everything but focused. “You don’t have time for this shit. _Dolomitenmann_ is in September. If your team is ever going to win anything you have to concentrate more on training and less on how to screw Plisetsky.”

“Kvetoslava!” Emil cries, because what the heck. It’s not that he doesn’t want to have sex with Yuri, of course he thinks about it, now that he’s accepted he might be in love with him. Actually, there has been quite a lot of thinking going on. But that’s not all there is. He also wants to get to know Yuri better. To be there for him. To hold him. It’s all very sappy in his head, and a bit embarrassing “It’s so much more –”

“Oh, shut up,” Kveta snaps and puts on her goggles. “Don’t break your neck on the way down.” She pedals hard, lets out a tiny warcry and is gone. Emil swears and tries to keep up with her, but she’s fast and pissed and it gives her wings. At least this chase keeps all the stray thoughts at bay – and the urge to lose himself in fantasies about Yuri.

He does a lot of daydreaming when he’s alone though, when he’s finished with training he allows himself to relax on the balcony of his tiny flat. The town is busy beyond. Sparrows are doing their sparrow business on the roofs, pigeons are cooing. Emil stares at his calloused fingers with their dirty fingernails, eyes his veiny forearms and wonders if Yuri would ever even consider him even remotely handsome. 

He knows he’s no Seung-Gil Lee. Even if Emil doesn’t find the guy strikingly attractive himself he still has to admit his fine facial features are pleasant to look at. Everything about him is sculpted – his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his Adam’s apple that is especially prominent in his latest Instagram post. 

Emil is taller, yes, and more muscular, especially after hitting the gym as often as he can, but he’s no classic beauty. His grandma calls him a _dashing fellow_ , but she’s so short-sighted she’s basically wearing the bottoms of lemonade bottles as glasses. Also everyone knows what a relative’s judgement is worth when it comes to one’s looks. He needs to step up his game.

That’s why he makes a barber’s appointment for the first time in years and gets his eyebrows done and his beard professionally trimmed by a tattooed giant with gargantuan hands. He also asks his former rinkmate Jakub for a good hairdresser because viewed objectively, Jakub has the best hair of the whole Czech team. 

“Doesn’t your ex usually do your hair?” Jakub asks. “The blonde one?”

“Things change,” Emil answers and smiles like a Sphinx. 

He looks weird with his shorter hair and beard, almost too suave for his taste. He misses his manbun and the effortlessness of his old style. Kveta loves the new look anyway. “Maybe I’ll fall in love with you again.” They look at each other and burst out laughing. 

***

“You sure you want to share a room with Yuri?” Mila says. “Have you confessed already?”

Emil grabs her arm and drags her out of earshot of Otabek, Otabek’s mother and his bazillion cousins who are preparing _baklava_ in the kitchen for the wedding guests. Just around the corner he stops and lets go of her. “Lady, we had an agreement.”

Mila’s eyes twinkle of mischief. She’s beautiful in her wedding makeup and the short designer dress, her hair up in a way that gives her an ethereal and elegant look. “Don’t worry, they don’t care.”

For a moment Emil considers wringing his hands and letting a frustrated groan escape his mouth, but then he reconsiders. It’s Mila, and Mila doesn’t care either, because by now she thinks of Emil as a friend and not as a threat. “Yes, I want a room with Yuri. I’m his plus one, remember?”

The room on the first floor is gorgeous. It has a view on the apple orchard of the family and the wedding venue in the garden. The sky is bluer than blue. Emil smells unnamed meat dishes and herbs, and when he opens the windows there is sun on his skin. It’s going to be a good day.

Eventually and almost too late, Yuri and his entourage arrive in Almaty. He’s irritated like a wet cat at the vet because of his coaches and the flight. “Thank fuck you’re here,” he says.

Emil drags him into a hug before he can think of any consequences, his stomach full of liquid sunshine when Yuri relaxes in his arms and sighs, and for once, he can imagine things will work out between them.

It’s during the wedding ceremony Emil allows himself to think about not pining forever, but the night on the dancefloor seals the deal. He knows that there are other wedding guests he should talk to. Christophe is here, and Max, because Georgi took them to the wedding as his dates, which also solves the mystery about Chris’s Russian boyfriend. 

It isn’t nice at all to ignore them, but he couldn't care less. All he cares about is Yuri. 

He doesn’t know it but he’s the most beautiful creature at this wedding despite his purple suit that clashes so marvellously with the tone of his skin. He’s graceful, undone and radiant, even when barefoot with his blisters and old scars and deformed toenails exposed, with messy hair and a sweaty upper lip. He grins and dances and cheers to the songs Otabek plays. Emil can’t stop to casually touch him, but because they’re dancing, he can get away with it without looking like a lovesick idiot. 

  
  


_“If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends_  
(Gotta get with my friends)  
Make it last forever, friendship never ends  
If you wanna be my lover, you have got to give  
Taking is too easy, but that's the way it is,” Yuri roars. He has sweaty palms and a terrible singing voice, but Emil couldn’t care less.

Under a giant tree on a hill just a few steps away from the party tent Yuri proves he has other qualities anyway. He kisses nothing like he skates. He’s tender and soft and more perfect than everything Emil would have imagined in his wildest dreams. When Yuri sighs against his lips, Emil licks over his piercing in the hope to make him more vocal.

It works. 

They stumble back to the guest room and Yuri raises an eyebrow at the double bed. Emil forgot to hide the lube in the nightstand. “You had this planned, you bastard.” It’s hot inside although the windows are wide open. 

“Maybe.” Emil grins, because why deny it. He is kissed again, this time with more passion and with a knee between his legs that makes him moan in agony, and then he’s pushed onto the bed. 

With swift fingers Yuri is unbuttoning his shirt, never looking away. “Since when?”

Emil’s pants get tighter every heartbeat Yuri stares him down but he doesn’t dare to undo his belt himself. “Since… since Tyrol.”

“I see,” Yuri says, not clarifying what it is he sees, but throws his shirt on the floor and shoves down his pants to give Emil a perfect look at him. Emil shouldn’t be surprised to see Yuri is pierced down there as well but he can’t keep himself from gawking.

Yuri smirks, crawls onto the bed and kisses Emil with his fingers in Emil’s hair. Emil holds Yuri’s face and can’t believe what’s happening. Everything is spinning. He needs to get out of these pants quickly or he might burst the zipper.

Moonlight reflects on Yuri’s pale skin when he climbs on Emil’s lap and starts unbuttoning Emil’s shirt so slowly Emil would rather rip it open and send the buttons flying, no matter how expensive and hard it was to find a shirt that is a similar shade than Yuri’s suit. He almost dies when Yuri sits up to marvel at his exposed chest. 

“So much hair,” he says and lets his fingers wander through it, then traces one of the dozens of scars that pave Emil’s body.

He wants to tell Yuri where he got them, but he doesn’t. Sometimes he forgets how young Yuri is, and what his type seems to be - Asian guys with hairless chests and hairless chins and hairless legs. He stops when Yuri shifts and presses their hips together, a startled moan escaping his mouth. “Do… do you mind it? The hair, I mean.” 

“Fuck you,” Yuri grins and grabs Emil’s belt buckle. “Let’s get rid of this and let me see the rest of your fur.”

Emil obediently follows Yuri’s order, watching every one of Yuri’s movements, and hisses when Yuri shoves down his pants to drop them beside the bed. 

“You want me to blow you this time?” Over Emil’s hip bones, Yuri’s tongue is drawing lazy circles, leaving wet trails that dry quickly in the stifling room and seem to raise the humidity in it to the max. “I’ll only do it if you ask.”

It’s just then that Emil’s brain has decided to be very uncooperative. “Yeah. Yes. Yes please.”

“You sure?” Yuri’s breath is hot through the fabric of Emil’s boxers and Emil thinks, _this man will be my end_. He nods eagerly, too far gone to be embarrassed about it.

Yuri laughs a sharp laugh full of blunt knives and pulls down the elastic band. From somewhere he produces two condoms and skillfully applies one of them on himself, then rips open the second with his teeth and hands it over to Emil. “Put it on.” He spits out a piece of the package in the general direction of the nightstand and waits until Emil has managed to cover himself.

“Here I come.”

Before Emil can consciously process where Yuri’s hands are, they are replaced with Yuri’s lips, his mouth, his tongue. The piercing feels weird and alien and oh so good. The room is silent except from slurping sounds and Emil’s jerky breaths. The window is still open. From the outside, the sound of crickets and very drunk wedding guests having the time of their lives drifts inside.

“Oh,” Emil sighs when Yuri lets him slip out with a lopsided grin and covers his fingers in lube. He hisses when Yuri takes him into his mouth again and sucks, and he obediently spreads his legs when Yuri’s wet fingers find their way between them.

It has been a while since he’s been worked open – Max used a lot more lube than Yuri does and took a lot more time. Yuri neither seems to be in the mood for more lube nor more time. 

Emil sympathises. 

With trembling hands, he lifts Yuri’s chin and almost forgets to breathe when Yuri looks at him, cheeks hollowed, lips wet, so very wet. Emil can feel him inside, curling his fingers. It’s almost too much. “Come here,” he whispers, bends forward and touches Yuri’s white shoulder.

It feels wet and chill when Yuri raises his head after a final lick. With the back of his hand, he wipes his mouth and pulls his fingers out so quickly it makes Emil hiss. 

“So impatient,” Yuri purrs. He wipes his hand on the white bedsheets, presses against Emil, who drags him closer and half onto himself. Yuri’s content sigh when they push their hips together tells Emil they both won’t last long. They kiss again. Yuri’s nimble tongue tastes of latex.

“Please,” Emil says. It’s almost a whine. Embarrassed, he hides his face in the nook of his arm. 

Yuri gently pulls Emil’s arm away. “Don’t hide.” He caresses Emil’s cheek, his fingertips brush Emil’s chin, his beard, his neck, and Emil closes his eyes because he can’t stand Yuri’s intense look that makes everything so raw and so real.

“Turn over for me,” Yuri says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY
> 
> The banner at the end was made by Vixen13 <3 It is perfect!!


	8. Yuri

Yuri waits for the rose-tinted glasses and the tingling feeling in his stomach, but there’s nothing when he kisses Emil goodbye at the airport in Almaty after the wedding.

“I’m glad you moved on,” Viktor says after Emil has left and pats Yuri’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. 

Yuri just scowls at Viktor and keeps quiet, which is mostly because he can’t figure out which swear word best pairs with his patented death stare. He’s already texting Emil anyway. Emil has already sent him a sad emoji and an invitation to Brno next month after he’s back from that weird Red Bull event he won’t stop talking about. 

_You must come and visit me_.

Yuri sighs so loudly that Coach Yuuri flinches. 

They text a lot. Emil sends so many pictures of bikes, dirty friends and mountains that they blur together into a weird collage of blues, greens and browns in Yuri’s mind. Everything is the colour of summer. Emil’s hair gets lighter and longer in every selfie he sends. His forearms look like a river delta. 

Sometimes Emil’s best friend is there; she looks a lot like Yuri’s sister, if Yuri’s mother had lived long enough to have another child. The longer he stares at her face, the more he understands why Emil is into him, and is glad he graduated from a taste for ugly bowl cuts to handsome Russian figure skating aces. Also, he has the prettier face. Those freckles are horrendous. 

“Will you come to Brno and visit me?” Emil asks again one night on Facetime, smiling his trademark smile. “Pleeease?”

Yuri, who’s currently in the process of cutting his toenails, grimaces at the webcam. “Fuck, that was too much.” He shows Emil the bit of the toenail he just chopped off. “I think I cut too deep.”

“Jesus Christ, Yuri. I’m having a moment here.” Emil’s eyes glitter; he’s clearly holding back a laugh but tries his best to look earnest. As always, he fails miserably because his face just isn’t made for serious expressions. “Also, eww. Who would have thought the current world champion could be so utterly disgusting.”

“You’re the one wearing an Adidas tracksuit like the last fucking _gopnik_!”

That’s when Emil cracks up.

Yuri shows his teeth and gives him the finger. “Of course I’ll come.”

***

As summer fades, he ends up in Emil’s flat, in Emil’s king size bed where he lets his hands run over Emil’s bare back and enjoys the feeling of soft skin under his fingers. Emil feels good, on the outside and the inside as well. He has a decent ass, is still flexible to an extent that Yuri appreciates a lot and doesn’t mind bottoming at all. He’s also been the perfect host over the course of the last two days, catering to Yuri’s every need. Yuri booked a hotel room but has never actually slept in it. There’s no need to stay there when there’s this apartment, Emil’s hospitality and Emil’s willing body. Also, the flat is closer to the rink.

It’s nice, lying around till noon, the lying around only interrupted by his training sessions at Emil’s former home rink followed by making out and some lazy fucking. It could be perfect, and it should be. Yuri sighs and absentmindedly continues to draw circles on Emil’s back. There are so many moles in all shades of brown and black there that it’s like a negative image of a starry sky. He’s has already found the Big Dipper and Orion’s belt and is sure there are more, but those are all the constellations he knows. Also, if he continues doing this he might die of sappiness. This is straight out of the script of a fucking rom-com already. 

“Wanna go out and grab a bite later?” Emil asks and turns around, nestling to Yuri’s chest. His breath tickles Yuri’s left nipple, ghosting over the piercing there. “I’m kinda hungry.”

“Nothing left?” 

“Nah. We finished everything, even the yoghurt.”

“I’m sure you can whip something up. You always brag about being such a good cook.” Yuri doesn’t want to leave Emil’s flat today, he doesn’t even want to leave this room, let alone this bed. Everything smells like home, even down to the bodily fluids. 

Emil snorts. “I could only serve you a glass of delicious Czech tap water, my lord. Get up, let’s go.” Without waiting for Yuri’s reaction, he rolls around and swings his long legs out of the bed. “Where are my boxers? Where on Earth did you throw them?”

It’s fun watching Emil dig through the piles of clothes on the floor, desperately searching for his underpants. Yuri has a perfect view of his naked ass, the cute dimples that are perfect for steadying himself, his v-shaped body. “I don’t know why you even bother with clothes,” he says. The last time he wore anything remotely clothey was when he arrived here. Since then, not so much. 

The look Emil shoots him, however, makes him roll his eyes, get out of bed as well and grab his sweatpants from the back of Emil’s desk chair. 

When he turns around, he catches Emil staring. 

“What?” His hair needs brushing, Yuri can feel it sticking out all over. He tries to comb it into shape with his fingers and fails miserably. “What is it?”

“I’ve just realised that I really, really like you.”

Yuri’s eyebrows crinkle before he can do anything about it. He turns away from Emil, pretending to search for his shirt, but the silence in the room gets louder anyway.

Emil ignores it because he’s Emil and too good for this world. 

It’s really getting fucking annoying. 

“What do you think about spending more time together?”

There is the shirt. Yuri grabs and sniffs it, decides it’s fresh enough for another day and puts it on, very slowly. “We do spend time together,” he mumbles into the fabric. On second thought, it smells too much of onion. 

“I mean, like quality time,” Emil says and sits down on the bed. He’s already fully dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and a grey button-down shirt with a v-neck that shows a bit of his chest hair. “Outside of this room, you know.”

“Wait, are you trying to tell me that fucking is not quality time? I feel deeply offended.” Finally, something Yuri can say lightly. The idea of walking through the park with Emil, holding hands, gives him instant goosebumps. Because that’s surely what Emil has in mind, Yuri can see it in his puppy dog eyes.

Emil chuckles, oblivious as he is. “Oh, don’t be. I was just thinking we could do something else for a change.”

Yuri flops onto the office chair and spreads his legs. He sighs deeply. “Are we gonna continue this conversation? I’m starving.” It’s a lie. “Come on, let’s move.”

A faint smile on his lips, Emil is still staring, eating Yuri up just the way he did at the wedding when Yuri was kneeling between his legs. 

“Could you stop that please?” The familiar annoyance starts boiling in Yuri’s stomach. 

“Sorry, I can’t help it. You’re just so handsome.” 

“You’ve only realised now? Damn, you’re slow.” Yuri lets his hand sink to his sides, then crosses them in front of his chest. He knows perfectly well that he’s very beautiful, he’s been told so a million times by a million different people, and never before has it ever bothered him in any way. But this time it does. 

It hurts. It should not hurt.

Emil grins sheepishly, gets up and takes a step in his direction. “But it’s true. Have I never told you how handsome you are? I should tell you more often.”

“Shut up, idiot,” Yuri snaps. 

One of Emil’s eyebrows rises slightly. One step more and he’ll drag Yuri out of the chair, will catch him in the circle of his arms, press Yuri to his chest, always hugging. Yuri is not a hugger at all.

“Does it really bother you when I tell you this? I didn’t mean to –”

“Don’t apologise for something you’re not supposed to be sorry for!” 

“I was not apologizing,” Emil says slowly. He sounds concerned, always concerned. 

Yuri thinks he’ll scream if Emil tries to touch him now.

He rubs his eyes with his hands. What the fuck is wrong with him? He knows what he must look like. It’s obvious Emil doesn’t understand what’s going on, and Yuri can’t blame him. 

How could he? Emil’s not a fucking mind-reader, he can’t see the thoughts tumbling through Yuri’s mind, slowly starting to circle around one single point: the last person who told Yuri he was handsome with this kind of honesty was Seung-Gil. 

Seung-Gil, with his perfect face, who he _still_ wants to hold, kiss, fuck, despite lying to himself for months, since that night in Almaty when he realised Emil had a thing for him. Nice, humble, mediocre Emil with his starry night back and his hospitality, asking for more without directly asking, for things Yuri cannot give. 

It’s hard to look at him and surely impossible to explain. “I can’t talk about this now,” Yuri says instead, gets up, grabs his things and leaves. Emil doesn’t try to stop him. 

***

Stomping through the shitty town does not help. In fact, it makes things worse. Yuri catches himself kicking pebbles, beer cans and the occasional limping pigeon that doesn’t move out of his way fast enough. Why can’t he be happy with what he can have? It’s crazy how his subconscious always wanders back to Seung-Gil, Seung-Gil always. Seung-Gil forever?

No, he can’t continue this train of thought. He can’t allow it. 

He speeds up until he’s almost jogging.

The sun sets in glorious shades of red, orange and pink. Yuri stops in some ratty park that consists of exactly five trees and one withered patch of grass, wipes the sweat off his forehead and takes out his phone. No calls from Emil, no messages. _Asshole_. 

He uses Google Maps to see where his rage has lead him and finds out he’s only a few streets away from his hotel room, the one he’s never seen the inside of, because Emil suggested not getting half board – he promised him delicious Czech comfort food, stupid Emil with his stupid smile. Yuri wants to kick something again when he realises that there will be no food for him unless he pays for it, but his toes are already hurting. Instead he finds the nearest food stand, buys a _trdelník_ with shredded coconut from a very blonde girl and wolfs the pastry down in two bites. 

It doesn’t sate his hunger, only lessens it a bit, but he decides he’s too tired to care, and heads for the hotel.

It’s a drafty shithole with moth-eaten carpets and peeling wallpapers, only booked to make Viktor and Yuuri believe this trip is purely professional. At least the bed is large and the sheets are reasonably clean. Yuri orders room service and gets served some probably-microwaved _guláš_ soup with a slice of stale brown bread. While he eats his sad dinner he thinks of Emil’s version of this meal, prepared for Yuri on his very first day: chunks of beef perfectly simmered to perfection in a deliciously rich paprika sauce, served with a crunchy bread roll from the baker right next to Emil’s house. Yuri swallows another bit of stringy meat without chewing. This fucking stew is so spicy, it’s making his eyes water. 

When he’s finished he flops onto the bed and stares at the fake mahogany ceiling. It’s only eight, he and Emil would probably have crashed some tiny bar by now, ordering food and beer. For sure Emil would’ve flirted with the cute waitress, just to annoy Yuri. Maybe they’d have played pool or darts. Emil would’ve taken Yuri’s hand under the table and stroked his fingers where no one could see. 

Stop. 

Yuri sits up and frantically grabs his phone. Grindr must have some decent dudes in the Czech Republic who aren’t blonde and blue-eyed and always giving him beard burn. 

He orders a clean-shaven, twenty-something Asian guy named Dong-Woo to his room and hopes this hotel is shady enough that the receptionist won’t mind him having guests. 

Apparently she doesn’t, because only half an hour later Yuri’s mindless channel-hopping is interrupted by a knock on the door. He opens and lets his gaze wander over the man he summoned, a perfect piece of art, raven hair, dark eyes, a bright smile. “Hi there,” he says, his voice all honey. 

Yuri’s grin hurts the corners of his mouth. There is a gorgeous guy standing right in front of him, it’s practically an obligation to be happy and half-hard already. Because his dick has apparently forgotten what it’s supposed to do in situations like these, Yuri drags the guy inside and presses him against the closed door to sniff his neck. His scent is decent, quite musky, but clean, and finally, Yuri’s cock twitches, thank fuck.

“Impatient, huh?” Dong-Woo chuckles and grabs Yuri’s ass. 

“Very. Get undressed.”

Yuri fucks Dong-Whatever senseless in his ratty room, on the not-so-ratty bed. Then he throws him out as soon as he’s caught his breath again. There’s no need for cuddling.

But it’s only his body that’s worn out. Mentally he feels just as wired as the time he drank four Ristrettos because Viktor dared him to, which made his heart hammer in his chest like a hamster on cocaine.

He can’t stop rolling around in the hotel bed. No position is comfortable, there’s simply too much space. Yuri builds himself a person-shaped substitute out of one of the blankets and spoons it. For a moment he thinks he’ll finally be able to fall asleep – but he can’t help thinking about a certain man again, and how this certain someone is perfect as both big and little spoon, versatile as he is.

With an annoyed grunt, Yuri sits up and leans his upper body against the headboard. The room is nearly pitch black, except for a thin ray of light coming from underneath the door. 

Yuri chews on his thumbnail, even though Viktor’s strictly forbidden it along with his insistence on regular manicures. Fuck Viktor, what does he know about coping strategies other than drinking himself numb? 

It takes another two fingernails bitten down to the quick and a lot of staring into the darkness to admit out loud that, when he’s really honest with himself, he knows he’s probably, maybe, not really in love with Seung-Gil. Most likely he never was. He is, no, was obsessed, just like Mila said all those months ago. But he doesn’t love him, right?

What he loves is _fucking_ , and the attention that being fuckable brings him. He _hates_ it when he’s not wanted, hence his obsession with Seung-Gil. Maybe. Probably. 

All his life, extremes have shaped him. He’s always been used to being the best, the fastest, the prettiest; and he’s not at all familiar with mediocrity. How can _Yuri Plisetsky_ be cast aside by a mediocre figure skater who's never won a major gold medal? 

Is that all that this – all of this – has been? Wounded pride, never really about Seung-Gil at all?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He wants to bang his head against the wall. As stupid as it sounds, he has to admit that humble, boring Emil has wormed his way into his heart. Yuri doesn’t know when and how he let it happen but he does know things are definitely more shitty when Emil’s not around. 

His constant presence is something Yuri is used to by now. He is good for Yuri. He’s the reasonable option because he _cares_. Beside all the crazy, flamboyant people in the ice skating scene this man is the blessed exception. He’s like a tousled earth wire, keeping Yuri grounded since he entered his life with a ball of toilet paper in one hand and a disgusting mocktail in the other. 

While Yuri gnaws on his fifth fingernail and spits it onto the floor he comes to the final conclusion of the night: Emil is definitely not the love of his life, but he surely has potential. And so Yuri must apologise.

After a sleepless night, Yuri has it all planned out in his head: the whole speech, the fall to his knees, the single tear running down his cheek, the whole romantic shitshow Emil will eat up like Easter candy on sale. He walks back to Emil’s flat in the early morning and mumbles the right words to himself over and over again, glaring at the pedestrians that dare to cross his way.

But when Emil finally opens the door to his flat with red eyes, even more matted hair than usual and looks at Yuri _that way_ , all the clever words are gone. Instead, it goes like this: 

“Where have you been? I was worried.”

“I went to the fucking hotel and fucked an Asian guy.”

“That’s quite a lot of fucks, even from you.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said, idiot?”

“Of course I heard you. Please don’t do that again, ever. Neither fucking Asian guys nor calling me an idiot. Not if this is ever supposed to work.” Emil pauses, then sniffles. 

It’s the worst to see him like this, and it was Yuri that caused it. 

“Do you even want this to work? Aren’t you gonna say something? Anything?”

Yuri’s head hurts like hell. All he wants is to run away from this. 

But he takes a breath and says, “I won’t do it again, I promise. It was shitty anyway. Please don’t send me away.”

They hug, they kiss, they take a shower. Yuri wonders whether Emil knows deep down that it’ll probably never be butterflies and all that shit for him but doesn’t dare to ask. He allows Emil to prepare and top him for the first time without a condom instead because he is really deeply sorry. He doesn’t know how to convey the message better than on his back, shuddering pleasantly under every one of Emil’s surprisingly powerful thrusts, shamelessly spilling himself onto the sheets, experiencing the weird feeling of come leaking out of his ass.

It’s nice, kinda. Afterwards, they put on clean bed clothes together. Yuri sticks his nose into Emil’s hair and inhales deeply. Nice is enough, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuri is such an idiot


	9. Emil

After the night of the wedding, Emil ends up in some kind of weird relationship with Yuri Plisetsky. The pictures he receives on a daily basis change. Before, Yuri sent him random objects and people, now it's mostly snaps of himself. On the rink. Sunbathing. Shopping. Eating. Running with Katsuki. Weightlifting with Georgi. On his bed, half-naked, the head of his cock peeking out of his sweatpants.

They never talk about what it is they have.

_When can I see you again?_

_soon_

_Will you come to Brno to me?_

_i’ll try_

_It'll be great._

_sure it'll be_

There's one message Emil never sends – _I miss you_. But Yuri might know anyway.

Eventually, Yuri agrees to visit in his hometown. Emil is overjoyed and cleans his flat as thoroughly as if he'd committed murder in it.

They almost never go outside except for getting drinks and food, exploring each others' bodies and learning how to communicate without speaking. Where to touch. What to say. When to be quiet and enjoy.

All is well until it isn't.

The evening Yuri _can’t talk about this right now_ and leaves the flat is the evening Emil almost starts drinking again. He hasn’t touched hard liquor since his first night with Yuri, out of sympathy, but he’s really missing numbing his thoughts and making everything just a bit easier - easier to bear and easier to understand why Yuri can’t stand to be called beautiful. 

Emil manages not to drink. Instead, he reflects on what happened and wipes away his angry tears. 

Nobody needs to know about either of it. It’s no use calling Kveta, or texting Max, because none of them would get it. Emil doesn’t get himself what made Yuri freak out that much over some casual remarks about their relationship. 

It is general knowledge that Yuri is a handful, but to experience it first hand is disappointing. 

It’s not that Emil isn’t used to being disappointed. He pined for the Crispinos for almost a decade and never made a gold medal at any major figure skating event despite everyone telling him he had great potential. None of it has ever stopped him pursuing his dreams before. But when he realises that falling for Yuri Plisetsky is much easier than actually staying in love with him, he almost regrets his decision to kiss him at the Altin wedding. 

It’s not that Yuri isn’t attractive and witty and fun to be with, but he can also be mean and irrational like a summer storm. Their fight has shown Emil as much. 

Restlessly, Emil wanders through his flat. Everywhere there are traces of Yuri – in the bathroom sink there are dozens of his whitish blond hairs, the cupboards in the kitchen store his nutrients and his disgusting whey shakes, there is a pair of sleek leather boots in the antechamber that Yuri forgot when he left. His Russian team jacket over the wing chair. A half-eaten slice of buttered rye bread with chives on the coffee table. His scent in the sheets, sweet and lemony. 

Oh, his scent in the sheets. 

Shamelessly, Emil hugs the pillow Yuri rested his head on and sighs so loudly he’s surprised the neighbours are not banging the walls to shut him up. The alarm clock on the nightstand tells him it’s already past four in the morning. Where did all the time go? Where the hell is Yuri? 

He can’t think about that now. He needs to sleep, because sleeping is undoubtedly the best remedy when the world is too much to put up with. 

The shrill ring of the bell rudely awakens him. “Jesus,” Emil mutters and rubs his eyes. He sits up. It’s half past seven and on the way to the door he decides he’s probably going to strangle the idiot who disturbed his mind-numbing sleep. 

It’s Yuri. 

Emil blinks at him, brain only half awake, and Yuri vexedly stares back. 

“Where have you been? I was worried,” Emil says, because it’s the only thing he can think of. 

Yuri’s eyes turn to slits. “I went to the fucking hotel and fucked an Asian guy.” His voice is as flat as if he was casually announcing yesterday’s lottery numbers. 

“That’s quite a lot of fucks, even from you.” _What the heck, Plisetsky_. Although Emil is so angry he can’t even think properly, he can’t act on it. The last time he let out his hidden emotions it ended with a fist in his face and two broken friendships, and under no circumstance is he going to repeat that experience, not even when Yuri does everything to hurt him and he doesn’t even know why. Last time was too painful, literally and figuratively. 

It’s hard work not to shout at Yuri, and even harder not to simply shut the door. Doesn’t he deserve to be happy for once, without any drama, with a normal person?

“Didn’t you hear what I just said, _idiot_?” Yuri snaps, still staring him down, begging to be shouted at. 

Emil won’t do him the favour. Maybe it’s crazy not to tell Yuri to get lost, but Emil is no quitter. There must be a way to make this work. “Of course I heard you. Please don’t do that again, ever. Neither fucking Asian guys nor calling me an idiot. Not if this is ever supposed to work.” He pauses, then sniffles. Stupid Yuri, making him cry again. “Do you even want this to work? Aren’t you gonna say something? Anything?” Oh no, his voice is breaking. 

Finally, Yuri can’t look at Emil anymore but stares at the tips of his sneakers, his shoulders slightly shaking. “I won’t do it again, I promise. It was shitty anyway. Please don’t send me away.” For an angry moment Emil thinks Yuri is laughing at him before his sleep-deprived brain understands. He wipes his damp eyes and takes a deep breath. Talking about this will come later, he decides. 

He takes Yuri’s hand to drag him inside the flat and shuts the door behind them. It’s still early but you never know which of his nosy neighbours is already awake and more than happy to snap a few pictures. Neither of them needs bad publicity, not before _Dolomitenmann_ , not before the next ice skating event. Now, he only needs peace and quiet and Yuri, who’s finally home. “I’m so glad you came back.”

Yuri doesn’t answer, he just throws his arms around Emil. It’s a bit awkward and it’s obvious he has not much experience with it, but Emil decides it’s the best feeling ever, especially when considering that Yuri has never hugged Emil of his own accord before. When considering it an apology of some strange kind. 

“Where else would I go?” Yuri says softly, another unspoken _I’m sorry_. 

He’d never say it though, this is certain. Coming back is already a giant step for a man who’s never learned to apologise. 

Is this enough to make everything whole again?

Yuri’s hug is getting stiff. “Emil?”

After a moment of consideration, Emil decides this is enough, at least for now. 

He hugs Yuri back and rubs his scrubby chin against Yuri’s tender neck just to tease him, his annoyed grunt music in his ears. “Are you tired? Shall we take a nap? You could –”

“Shut up. Don’t be so fucking nice all the time. It drives me mad.”

“You know this is who I am, right?”

Yuri, still in Emil’s arms, finds his way back to glaring at him. Then he leans forward for a kiss. It’s aggressive and too toothy and Yuri has bad breath because he forgot his toothbrush at Emil’s. 

Emil doesn’t care. He just grabs Yuri’s hip and drags him closer and moans when Yuri catches his tongue and sucks it, the piercing strange and familiar in his mouth. Without Yuri as a support, he’d just collapse right here in the antechamber. 

When they’re both breathless and hard, Yuri lets go of Emil. “Shower,” he demands.

After he’s finished cleaning himself, Emil switches place with Yuri and leaves his windowless bathroom when it becomes too steamy to breathe. He is not sure whether to dress or stay naked. Uncertain, he decides for the middle ground, puts on a pair of his less ratty boxers and moves to the bedroom to first sit, then lie on the bed. He sits up again and leans back against the headboard. His legs are all antsy and he doesn’t know why.

The door to the bathroom opens and a thick cloud of steam emerges together with a pristine and very naked Yuri Plisetsky. Water is dripping off his damp hair and collects in his collar bones. He raises an eyebrow when he notices Emil’s gaze following stray droplets of water down his body. “Do you want me to draw you like one of my French girls?”

“Huh?”

“Whatever.” Yuri walks over to Emil to sit down next to him. “Why are you wearing this ugly thing? Get rid of it asap.”

Yuri is watching every movement of Emil’s hands while Emil shoves down the boxers. Emil balls the fabric up and drops it on the floor. “Why are you staring?” he says, teasing Yuri again with a callback to last evening.

Apparently, Yuri is made of teflon. “I want you, that’s why”, he says. 

The three words make Emil’s cock twitch and his mind turns blank. “Oh. Okay.” By habit, he wants to turn around when Yuri touches his shoulder. “Hn?”

Yuri lies down next to him, drags himself closer until their legs and hips and arms touch. Although he has just showered, his skin is chill. “Not like this. Let… let me.”

“You don’t need to prepare me. I’m ready.” 

“But _I’m_ not.” Yuri mumbles almost inaudibly, his face red. It’s not from the hot shower. 

When the penny drops, Emil could kick himself for being so slow. This is Yuri’s third apology. “You sure? We could –”

“Goddammit, Nekola.”

“Don’t be so nice. Understood.” Emil plants a kiss on Yuri’s lips, partly to calm him down and partly to relax himself, because this is also a premiere in a day full of premieres. He’s so going to apply for a national Czech holiday in honor of it. 

Well, not of the part where Yuri just left and cheated on him. 

Not now. He’s trying so hard. 

“Lean back,” Emil says. 

Yuri makes an annoyed grunt but does what he’s told. He clearly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, which is adorable. Emil is not going to tell him because he wants to live to the end of this day. This is big. They’ve never really talked about it but through every action Yuri showed Emil he prefers being on top. 

Now Yuri’s lying in the sheets, so red he could make a sunburn look pale, unable to produce a cocky grin or a snarky comment for once. 

He’s never been more desirable. 

“Don’t even think about licking my hole,” Yuri hisses. “Takes too long.”

“No licking, roger that.” Emil salutes, which makes Yuri click his tongue. “Want me to blow you?”

“Nah.”

This is strange. Yuri loves getting his cock sucked, but if he doesn’t want it tonight, this is fine for Emil. “No blowjob, alright. You’re the boss.” He kneels between Yuri’s legs and bends forward to grab the lube from the nightstand. Yuri’s eyes turn wide. 

Who’s really in charge here?

“If you really want this, you need to relax”, Emil says, a smile dancing on his lips. He pops the tube open and squeezes a generous amount of it on his index finger. “If you don’t, it might hurt.”

“I know. I’ve done this before, you know.” Warily, Yuri stares at Emil’s hand. “Also, I’m relaxed as fuck.”

“Sure,” Emil says and puts his other hand on Yuri’s stomach, right above Yuri’s cock. He’s definitely not going to argue with him, Yuri is a grown-up and knows that Emil won’t do anything he doesn’t like. To calm him down, he caresses the hard muscles with slow, circling movements until Yuri closes his eyes and unclenches, albeit a tiny bit. His upper teeth catch his piercing, which makes Emil wonder whether Yuri is really nervous about this or trying to seduce him with this act of innocence. 

Well, he’s going to find out. 

It’s easier to prepare Yuri than Emil has expected. He manages to get in the first finger quickly, gives him time to adjust by staying very still and nibbling his neck, and then tries to add another when Yuri relaxes. 

“Man, I forgot this feels like shitting backwards,” Yuri groans and shuffles next to Emil. 

“Want to stop or take a break?” Emil asks although the last two things he wants are stopping or taking a break.

Yuri takes a deep breath. The second finger slips in, finally. “Ngggh… Hell, no.” 

So another finger it is, and more lube. It was wise not to change the sheets sooner, Emil muses, and worth it because Yuri is obviously starting to have fun now, especially since Emil began to use his free hand to give some attention to his half-hard cock. He’s _very_ affected by Yuri’s sighs and moans and little whines either, so he pulls out his fingers slowly to grab a condom from the nightstand. 

Yuri’s eyes flutter open, irritated by the lack of warmth. “I don’t want that,” he murmurs and looks to the side to avoid Emil’s eyes. His cheeks are an adorable shade of pink, like the blush he used to wear to competitions before the growth spurt. 

“Huh?”

“Don’t make me say it, you ass.”

“What?”

“That I wanna feel you inside me.”

So this is apology number four. Emil wants to hug Yuri right then, but he doesn’t dare because Yuri will surely murder him. So he casually puts the half-opened package back to toss it later. “Well then,” he says and grabs Yuri’s legs to put them on his shoulders. 

Being in bed with an incredibly flexible figure skater pays off. Yuri slips in position perfectly, hips raised, legs spread. His eyes are hooded, his teeth occupied with nibbling at this right thumb. “I haven’t done this shit in like, forever,” he says and flinches when Emil positions himself. 

“I thought you’d done this before?”

“Ass,” Yuri growls.

“I promise I’ll make sure it feels good,” Emil says, resisting the urge to caress Yuri’s forehead with its worry lines and whisper sweet nonsense in his ear. Instead, he’s grabbing the lube once more and applies it generously onto himself, then gently wipes the rest on Yuri’s ass, quickly slipping into his hole with just the tip of his index finger just to see if Yuri’s still ready. There’s almost no resistance. “Is this okay? We could –”

Yuri moans the tiniest moan. “You fucking tease.”

Emil grins and retreats.

Yuri holds his breath when Emil lines himself up, pushes forward the very first time and exhales audibly when he pulls out again. 

It’s hard not to come right then, especially when there is no condom to decrease his sensitivity. Since Kveta, Emil has forgotten how intense this can be, and how much he enjoys it from time to time. He grits his teeth and increases his speed, enjoys the heat building up inside him and Yuri clenching around him. “We need... to change position…. if you don’t want this... to end...”

Yuri glowers at him as if Emil had just suggested having pork entrails for dinner. His toned legs wrap around Emil’s hip in a way that will surely leave Emil bruised the next day. 

“Do your thing,” Yuri hisses. 

“I can’t move,” Emil groans, and Yuri softens around him, but only the tiniest bit, not until Emil kisses him so that he lets his guard down. The tongue piercing feels like home, Yuri’s spit tastes of mint and Yuri. Emil tugs on his bottom lip and licks around the lip ring, right where Yuri is most sensitive, and Yuri twitches. 

Once more, Emil pulls out and then thrusts until he can’t go any deeper, and then some more. Yuri is whining something in Russian that doesn’t make the slightest sense and then suddenly stops. With a deep sigh, he squirts on his own stomach, fingernails dug into Emil’s shoulders. 

_Wildcat. Lynx. Ice Tiger of Russia_. 

Emil manages two more thrusts, then he exhales and comes inside Yuri in a violent shudder. Yuri stares at him in awe, arms around his neck, and kisses him just under his right eye when he’s done and tired and ready to fall asleep. 

“I’m going to pull out,” Emil murmurs, because he can’t possibly just doze off like that. 

Yuri rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to announce it like that.” He’s still clenching him tight, but Emil is already feeling himself shrinking out of Yuri and rolls off of him. The mattress is cool and soft. He’s going to sleep so well tonight.

“Fuck, this is a mess,” Yuri growls next to him and sits up. “I’ll have come leaking out of my ass for days. Shit. Can’t you jerk off more often, like other guys your age?” With a disgusted face, he grabs some tissues from the nightstand, stuffs them between his legs and uses some more to clean his stomach. “Next time we’re using a fucking condom again.” He slings the tissues in the direction of Emil’s trash can and misses. There’s a reason why he’s a pro figure skater and not a pro basketball player. 

“Next time?” Emil is the epitome of content, exhausted and happy. The only thing missing is Yuri in his arms, but this can be fixed easily.

Yuri snuggles into the crook of Emil’s neck. “When I’m topping again, I mean.” 

So this means he’ll stay. “We’ll see about that,” Emil says and yawns. Things are about to change. He’s going to make sure they will.

***

An aggressive autumn sun blares down on Liezen. Left and right from the running track, locals in traditional costumes, tourists and extreme sport fanatics find their place. Some have banners or flags with them. Two of them are Yuri and Kveta, looking like fraternal twins, carrying a Czech and an Austrian flag and looking equally pissed. They have painted their faces in psychedelic swirls of blue, white and red. Kveta is filming with the GoPro; this is too big an event not to upload a video on their YouTube channel. 

“This is going to be so damn hard. All the schlepping and the stairs and the slopes. What was I even thinking?” For the twelfth-hundred time, Emil is checking the brakes of the bike he’ll be dragging and riding at over 1400 metres in altitude. This is crazy. Complete and utter madness. 

“It was your decision to take part in it,” Kveta says. “Now deal with it.”

“Stop whining, you baby. Ice skating is twice as hard,” Yuri adds and flicks a strand of hair out of his face. He’s ironically waving his Austrian flag. “Woohooo.”

“God, you two are the worst.” 

Stefan, the team leader and their runner, is gesticulating to come over for a last team meeting. It’s only about ten minutes until the whole thing starts, until it becomes real, until Emil will be taken to the second starting line to wait for his teammate to show up. Then he’ll be pedalling for his life and his career. “Crap. Gotta go.” His legs are like rubber. 

“You got this!” Kveta shouts after him. Yuri adds nothing, partly because he’s Yuri, partly because he’s officially here as Emil’s friend – Instagram and Twitter are already going crazy with the fact that he’s here in Austria in the middle of the figure skating season.

Emil hurries over to Stefan, Lukas and Joe. All of them look as nervous and as full of anxious energy as he feels. The most skittish one is Joe. At twenty, he’s the youngest of the team, and as their swimmer, he’ll have to cross the river Drau to make it to the final finish line. “I want to die,” he says in very accented English and rolls his eyes. His blond curls are even wilder than usual. 

Emil pats his back. “You got this.” In the presence of the others, he’s suddenly feeling calmer. Maybe he can do this. Maybe _his team_ can do this. They will surely make it to the finish and not drop out, like so many teams before. Stefan made sure they all trained their asses off and Kveta whipped him into shape while their team leader wasn’t around. All is good. Maybe. Hopefully. 

God, he’s so afraid. 

“Okay friends, see you later,” Stefan says when a Red Bull official gives the signal to the runners. They all shake hands and grin at each other with sunburned faces, a pack of crazy people in the world's toughest team relay race. Stefan jogs over to the starting line where all the other runners are waiting, warming up, getting last instructions from their team members and coaches. 

And then it begins.

***

“Third place!” Lukas roars, “We’re the kings!” He tries to hug Kveta, who kills any of his attempts with a tilted head. Lukas pushes a bottle of beer into Yuri’s hands instead and wants to squeeze himself on the beer bench next to him. 

Yuri has no space to flee, so he accepts the beer bottle, but puts it down with a disgusted face. Emil feels for him. It’s _Murauer_ – even if Yuri was drinking, Emil wouldn’t force him to try this Austrian piss beer that gives you nothing but an internal crisis and a terrible headache the next day. 

He wants to save Yuri from his drunk, affectionate team member who still tries to share his joy with them, but he’s too high on painkillers to do so. _Help him_ , he mouths to Stefan instead, and Stefan, unkempt angel in mud-caked running shoes, understands. He drags Lukas away from their table, winking at Emil. “Well done,” he says before he leaves. They will have a proper team meeting tomorrow, before everyone goes home. 

Finally, Emil has time to wolf down the giant bowl of Rigatoni and realise what he and his team members have just accomplished. He feels as if he’s just ingested a litre of coke. Everything tingles. 

Third place – what a success for their first time as a team. He only slipped once because he didn’t see that root because of all the sweat in his eyes, and cut his shin, but that’s nothing Kveta can’t fix. He didn’t even realise he was injured all the way to his finish line until Yuri casually pointed out he was oozing blood into his shoes.

Emil is so proud he wants to kiss Yuri and Kveta and every other person in his reach. He did it. He’s a fully-fledged member of Red Bull’s extreme sports team, with a contract that’ll pay for his rent and also leave some room for savings and some travels to St.Petersburg. All is good.

“They could easily fix that,” Kveta says. “Just change the name from _Dolomitenmann_ to _Dolomitenrun_ , et voila. There’s no reason why women can’t take part in this just because the name is a trademark. We’re living in the twenty-first century, goddamn. I think they’re just afraid of us because we’d own this race.”

“I think you’d like my friend Mila.” Yuri steals a noodle from Emil’s plate. “Have I ever told you about the time she asked the ISU to let her compete in the men’s section?” He pops it in his mouth. “Shit, this is so good. If Viktor saw this, he’d have a heart attack – _not during the season, Yura!_ ” Somehow he manages to give his mock-Nikiforov-voice an even stronger Russian accent than he has himself. 

Kveta laughs, a scarce but lovely sound. 

***

In their hotel room, Yuri naked and asleep and worn out next to him, Emil checks his phone for the first time that day. Apart from his notifications going crazy with fan comments, there is a voice message from his parents and a video message from Max, congratulating him and giving him Chris’s love. Smirking, Emil responds to the first with a polite thank you and to the second one with a selfie of his face plus Yuri’s glorious ass in the background, half-covered by the sheets. 

_Don’t share with Chris_

_I’d never_

Emil grunts, promising himself to call Max as soon as he’s fit enough for a conversation that’s not either a quick interview at the finish line or moaning Yuri’s name while he’s being fucked as a reward for being such a good boy. 

Just as he's ready to put his phone down to get a good night’s sleep, it blinks again. Yawning, he unlocks the screen, expecting another social media alert. It’s an old-fashioned text message from an unknown number.

Emil had his fair share of creeps and stalkers back in the day when he was younger, cuter and less hairy, so he opens the message warily. 

_I wanted to write you on Whatsapp but you blocked me after the Grand Prix Final. Congrats on third place_. 

It takes Emil a while to realise who’s writing to him, and when he does, his heart is pounding in his chest so loudly he wouldn't be surprised if it woke Yuri from his post-coital slumber. Through the messages, he can hear her talking just as if she was in the room, sees her purple eyes, smells her sweet perfume. Fingers slightly shaking, he scrolls through the rest.

 _You did great. I’m very proud of you. Watched the event on TV and cheered you on (M was at training). I watch them all, by the way, because I miss you (M misses you too but he won’t admit it, you know what he is like). Give me a call whenever you want to talk (or apologise, you moron, because I’m still mad)_. 

He can’t write back right away, not before he’s truly acknowledged what has just happened. Instead, he switches the phone to flight mode and puts it slowly on the nightstand, screen down. Yuri moves in his sleep next to him. Emil puts his hand on Yuri’s shoulder blades, feels his breathing and smiles when he shifts just a bit closer to him. 

If Emil is completely honest with himself, he has to admit that he still misses Sara and Mickey. They’re his past, they were once dear to him and maybe could be again when he answers this peace offering and decides to get in touch. Maybe the three of them could work things out.

However, this is his future. This is now – Red Bull, this hotel room, the man next to him. Emil drags Yuri in his arms and places a kiss on the nape of his neck. 

Yuri sighs when he half wakes from his slumber. “What’s going on?” For once, he’s all soft and slinky against Emil’s bare chest.

“Nothing,” Emil whispers and smooths a meddlesome strand of Yuri’s hair just to have an excuse to touch him more, joy washing through his veins. “I’m just so damn happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He deserves his happy end


	10. Yuri

It’s easy to ignore the comments of his fans and to simply not answer the speculations of his rinkmates, even when they’re as annoying as Viktor. 

It’s impossible to ignore his grandfather. 

“I’m not stupid,” he says over a bowl of homemade and utterly disgusting _solyanka_. 

The soup is so full of pickled cucumbers and cheap pork sausage Yuri is sure he’ll belch for years. If he allowed himself to think about the amount of trans fats he’d have to commit seppuku immediately. 

Grandpa doesn’t care about his diet. “Invite him, Yuratchka. I want to get to know this friend of yours.”

Yuri puts his spoon down and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “He’s kinda busy, you know.” He’s not sure what exactly Emil is doing for that Austrian energy drink company although he suffered through some YouTube videos and even went to a crazy event in the Dolomites to watch Emil carry his mountain bike _uphill_ for more than half the race. “He can’t just pack his thing and come.”

“Invite him,” Grandpa says and that’s the end of the discussion. 

***

Emil finds time to come between Christmas and New Year. Of course he does. He’s so fucking reliable; half of Yuri kinda likes it and the other half wants to launch him into the sun. 

Of course Emil is also the perfect guest, gifting Grandpa a bag of organic, roasted sunflower seeds, Czech tobacco for his pipe and some high-end hipster vodka. Yuri gets fancy chocolate and a hand-knitted scarf from his long-lost twin sister Kveta. 

It’s freezing cold in Moscow, and windy as hell, but they take long walks through the city anyway and skate in Gorky Park. Emil has clearly lost some of his skill and drive for ice skating, but still manages some decent jumps, laughs loudly when he falls and adds some new, shiny bruises to his ever-growing collection. He eats all the food, even praises Grandpa’s disgusting solyanka without it sounding fake.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Grandpa says. He’s kneading the dough for tonight’s piroshky; Emil is in charge of browning the onions and the ground beef. Yuri has been banished to the living room because apparently he’s a ‘disaster’ in the kitchen. 

It’s boring as fuck. Grandpa still refuses to get cable TV although Yuri offered to pay for it, and he has already scrolled to the bottom of both his Tumblr and Instagram feeds. His eyelids are heavy as lead. He picks a scab on his arm to stay awake.

“I’m glad you offered to show me how to make Yuri’s favourite food,” Emil says. They speak English with each other, but because Grandpa only started learning the language when he retired, the whole conversation is slow. It also makes eavesdropping hard. “He always tells me how much he loves your cooking.”

“It doesn’t happen often that my Yuri says he loves.” 

“Your food?” 

The meat is sizzling in the pan. It’ll be another hour or two till the piroshky are ready. Maybe Yuri should order pizza in the meantime. 

“My food, yes. He hates soups I make.” 

They both laugh and it’s so domestic Yuri isn’t sure whether he wants to barf on the rug or bury his face in one of Mum’s embroidered pillows. Fat Irina Ivanova from next door shouts at one of her three hundred cats. The heating is banging and gurgling; Grandpa’s collection of dog figurines on the sideboard are as hideous as ever. Yuri’s stomach rumbles audibly.

Emil starts humming some jingle Yuri doesn’t recognise. He’s a good singer and hummer, and Grandpa is too. For some time they search for a song they both know, and decide on Jingle Bells although Christmas for Emil is over and Grandpa hates America out of old habit. Yuri closes his eyes, snuggles into the sofa cushions that smell like tobacco and old man and pulls Grandpa’s ratty old blanket over his legs.

“What is it like to be with my Yuri?” Grandpa says eventually and instantly Yuri is wide awake again.

Emil takes his time answering. Yuri can imagine the stupid smile on his face. “Being with him is like trying to catch the wind, you know,” he says. “You keep trying because you can’t live without it.”

“Sappy bastard”, Yuri murmurs. He’s too worn out from training and waiting and being hungry to get up from his sofa trap and tell his idiot in the kitchen exactly that.

“Like paragliding,” Grandpa hums contentedly, as if this explains anything at all. 

***

Staying at his Grandpa’s is fine and all when all you need is to quietly jerk off from time to time.  
Emil, however, is incapable of keeping his voice down when Yuri attempts to suck him off in his childhood bed, and he moans far too loudly when Yuri surprises him in the bathroom after Grandpa falls asleep. The old man is half-deaf after working as a tinsmith for thirty years, but Yuri can’t risk getting caught lube-handed here.

By the third day in Domodedovo Yuri is ready to climb the walls. Wanking in the shower is not enough anymore. Goddamn, he’s _craving_ Emil.

It’s a godsend when Grandpa announces during breakfast that he has a doctor’s appointment. Yuri grins so broadly that Emil throws him a questioning look. He chuckles quietly into his sandwich when Yuri wiggles his eyebrows and licks his lips.

Grandpa refills his mug with tea. “Don’t forget to do the shopping,” he says, entirely oblivious to what’s going on behind his back. 

“Sure,” Yuri says and winks at Emil again. 

The moment the door closes Yuri throws the magazine he’s been pretending to read to the floor, jumps into Emil’s lap and starts nibbling his neck, Emil’s beard scratching his ear. “You need to shave,” he murmurs as he sucks the soft skin, and Emil sighs and wraps his veiny arms around Yuri to drag him down onto the couch. 

Yuri can’t stop touching him. It’s been forever since they fucked, since _he’s_ done the fucking. This time it won’t be Yuri with a sore ass afterwards, it’s gonna be Emil who won’t be able to sit on his bike for days. 

“We should... go shopping first,” Emil moans.

Yuri stops and stares. “What?” He pushes his knee between Emil’s legs – yes, he _is_ suggesting this with a raging hard-on. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growls. “Don’t you wanna fuck?”

Emil smiles apologetically and strokes Yuri’s bare back below his ridden-up sweater. “Of course I want to. But I also want to be nice to your grandfather.”

“Jesus Christ.” Yuri jumps up and reaches into his sweatpants to angrily adjust his cock. “You know how to kill a boner.” 

Emil props himself up on his elbows. “Yuri, you know this is important for him. I’m leaving tomorrow. He wants to show me how to make _zharkoye_. He’s been talking non-stop about it.”

“I don’t care about fucking _zharkoye_!” Yuri stomps out of the room before he hurls one of the dog figurines at Emil. He throws himself onto his bed, making the frame whine. “Why do you have to be so goddamn reasonable all the time?” 

“I have no idea what’s just happened,” Emil says and sits on the bed. “Could you –”

Yuri seriously considers suffocating him with his Evanescence pillow, just to make him stop being so goddamn calm and put together. “I don’t know, could _you_ explain to _me_ why you want to go grocery shopping when we have this one opportunity for a fuck? It's like we’re already married for years! ‘ _Not today honey, we need to do the fucking shopping!_ ’ That's so fucked. I shouldn't have brought you here!" 

“Yura –”

“Don’t you dare ‘Yura’ me! That’s for family and friends!” Yuri is so mad he just wants to lash out and hurt Emil, who’s still trying to smile, the fucker. “Piss off, will you.”

Emil takes a deep breath. “Stop the tantrums already. They’re getting old.” He raises his hand and Yuri flinches, but Emil doesn’t want to hit him. He just puts his hand on Yuri’s head and lets it rest there. “Also, you can’t win. You should know by now that I have a lot more endurance than you.”

Yuri breathes audibly through his nose. He thinks about pushing the hand away, but quickly changes his mind when Emil starts to stroke his hair. Damn, that feels good. “Because you’re a fucking doormat.”

“No, because I care for you.” Emil’s fingers comb through Yuri’s hair. “I’m not giving up on this relationship that easily. But it’s exhausting that you’re acting out every time I try to be serious.” 

“This is a _relationship_?” Yuri snaps, finally getting rid of Emil’s hand by sitting up and grabbing a cat plushie. They’re fuck buddies, friends with benefits, pounding pals, nothing more. “Are you insane?” 

Finally, Emil’s expression changes. Oh, he’s hurt. 

Interesting.

“How can you even ask that! Sure it is a relationship, I wanna spend my life with you, you idiot!” As soon as he’s said it, Emil presses his lips together and balls his fists, seemingly flustered. 

“Is that a fucking proposal?”, Yuri asks, still staring at Emil’s hands. 

Emil looks up at him through his tousled hair. “I would be happy enough if you finally called me your boyfriend, but yes, eventually –”

_Oh shit_. “Why? Why would you want to spend your life with me, of all people?” For some reason Yuri’s voice voice isn’t working the way it should.

“Do you really have to ask me why?” Emil smiles a toothy smile. “Come here,” he says, and opens his arms.

Something cracks inside Yuri, and what comes out are angry, ugly sobs. Emil holds him through it, and doesn’t say a word.

***

“You sure about this?” 

Yuri draws his hand back from the phone he’s placed on the coffee table. Warm air wafts in through the open window; spring came early this year and when it did, it marched into St. Petersburg with timpani and trombones. Since then, it has been heating up Yuri’s flat. If they really want to stay here, they’re gonna need AC. 

“I don’t have to post it. Actually…” He laughs when Emil folds his arms and tries to stare him down. What an amateur. “Aww, don’t be mad. I’ll post it just for you, _honey_.” 

It’s ridiculous how brightly Emil flushes at the pet name, especially considering that that fucking beard is covering two thirds of his face by now. “Do it, _Yuratchka_ ,” he eventually says from the other side of the couch. He’s become a quick student.

Yuri gives him the finger, presses the upload button and shows Emil his updated feed. 

Emil nods in approval. “It’s a nice picture.”

“‘Nice’, my ass. We’re gorgeous.” Yuri made sure the picture was absolutely flawless: they waited for the perfect angle of evening light, used a selfie stick and even practiced their pose. Emil’s hair is artfully tousled, his smile sweet. He’s wearing Yuri’s favourite burgundy shirt and black earrings. His arm is around Yuri’s shoulders, their cheeks pressed together. Yuri half-smirks into the camera, perfectly put together. If he’s honest with himself, he even looks hotter than he did at eighteen, when Viktor told him he was at his prime.

He chose his tags carefully for maximum impact: _#movingintogether #boyfriends #gaycouple #outandproud #hatersgonnahate_

Now it’s time to wait and see what the fans will say. Yuri doesn’t want to think about all the comments he’s going to have to ignore. It’s making his blood pressure rise already, just as it does when he considers how much stuff Emil brought with him into this tiny flat. How many shin guards, cookbooks and fucking bikes does one person need?

God, the fans. And Grandpa. And his coaches and Minami and Seung-Gil Lee. 

Jesus Christ, _everyone_ will know. 

“Let’s unpack your shit,” Yuri says, putting his phone on silent and placing it face down on the table, voice as calm as possible. 

***

 

They have their first proper fight when Emil brings a puppy home from a shelter. Yuri is at a photoshoot in Sicily and can’t do anything, the mutt pukes all over the flat in the first two days and scares Potya half to death. They make up when Emil cooks Yuri the best _bibimbap_ he’s ever eaten in his whole life.

“Have I ever told you I have Korean roots?” Emil says and winks. “A great-grandmother on my father’s side.” The puppy yaps under the table, begging for food. Still calling it a puppy is a joke; it seems to double in size by the hour and wolfs down premium dog food worth half what Yuri’s just earned. 

Yuri ignores the dog because he’s not ready to acknowledge its existence yet. He shovels rice into his mouth, glaring at Emil. “The fuck you have.”

“For a moment you wished it was true, didn’t you?” 

Even years after retiring Emil is still quick on his feet, gracefully evading the spoon that Yuri throws at his face.

Yuri learns Czech for him, the swear words first. Whenever Emil whispers weirdly-pronounced Russian into his ear while he mounts him, he feels a strange ache in his chest that turns into a dull throb when he rests in Emil’s arms afterwards. The day Emil tells Yuri he loves him, Yuri grits his teeth and doesn’t freak out too much. 

The next Autumn, Grandpa dies of pneumonia. 

Yuri gets the call from Irina Ivanova when he’s at training. While he clings to the barrier, she explains that he’s been coughing for days, but refused to go to the hospital even when his lips turned blue and he couldn’t breathe properly any more. “I really tried, Yura, I really did. But you know, he’s always been stubborn as a pig. Do you remember when he burned his hand and got that infection? Even then he told everyone marigold salve was enough.” Irina’s voice is thick. They liked each other a lot, being neighbours for thirty years. She must be close to eighty herself by now.

Irina’s been crying, Yuri realises. He can’t cry. This is a sick joke. Grandpa’s been around forever. He’s always been healthy. He’s like a weed growing out of a crevice, surviving hot summers, rodent attacks and nuclear wars. He can’t simply be gone because of some fucking infection and leave Yuri alone.

In the evening over a bowl of _spaghetti carbonara_ he tells Emil. 

“What? When?” It’s almost comical when Emil stops chewing and speaks with his mouth open like a goddamn cartoon character. He’s even holding a fork full of pasta mid-air, staring at Yuri with round eyes. Ridiculous. 

It’s less funny when Emil breaks out in tears because that’s when Yuri understands Grandpa is not coming back. 

Oh crap, he’s all alone in this world.

He somehow manages to fly to Moscow to sort through Grandpa’s stuff and survives the reading of his last will, barely registering that the flat in Domodedovo, the old _Saporoshez_ and a savings account with 80,000 rubles goes to him. Emil comes with him and never lets go of his hand.

The funeral goes by in a haze. There are so many, Irina Ivanova and some other neighbours, friends from Grandpa’s chess club, an old army buddy, Viktor and Yuuri, Otabek and Mila, eight months pregnant. Even Yakov and Lilia have come. Yuri doesn’t know who invited the guests. When they let the coffin down into the ground, his tears finally start falling and it seems they can’t stop.

Days pass. Yuri should be training but he can’t make himself leave Moscow. He can’t even leave Grandpa’s flat, where everything smells like old man and disgusting _solyanka_. As long as Yuri stays, Grandpa stays. Or his spirit. Or whatever.

Fuck, he’s crying again. 

Behind him, he hears Emil walk over from the kitchen where he’s been busy for hours. “Why are you still here?” Yuri croaks. His throat is raw from crying. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Some mountain to climb, some river to swim through, somewhere to risk life and limb, far away from this flat, with its ugly dog figurines and the icon of the Virgin Mary with a bleeding red heart that gave Yuri the creeps when he was a child and came to live here?

Emil sits down on the couch where Yuri’s nesting in a huge pile of Grandpa-scented blankets, throw pillows, a stuffed cat plushie in his arms, and places a steaming bowl of soup on the table. 

Judging by the smell, it’s Coach Yuuri’s chicken soup, Yuri’s favourite. When did he learn to make that?

“You need to eat,” Emil says patiently. 

“Leave me alone. Please.”

Emil sits and waits until Yuri has dried his face with his sleeve. “I told them I had family issues to deal with, and they told me I could stay home with you. Now eat, you need to get some liquid into your body.”

Yuri eats the fucking soup. 

When Emil’s old coach has a stroke nine months later, most of Yuri wants to bail and never return – but then he remembers that soup, and how Emil refused to leave even when Yuri thought he wanted him to, and stays. 

He still doesn’t know what the hell to say, and his attempts at soup are shit, but when Emil gives him a watery smile he can’t help feeling that he’s done something right. 

On his twenty-fifth birthday, Emil properly asks for his hand with a tacky cat-shaped engagement ring. Yuri agrees. He also says yes when Emil wants to adopt a child two years after that. 

It’s easier just to play along. Emil can be terribly persistent, after all. 

Nikolina is ash-blonde and blue-eyed and looks a lot more like a mix of Yuri and Emil than a biological child ever would. Emil loves her the second she’s put into his arms. Yuri, however, doesn’t truly fall for her until she stands on the ice of the St. Petersburg rink for the very first time in her first pair of golden skates, a present from Viktor for her third birthday.

Emil holds her hand as she takes her first determined steps onto the ice, smiling at Yuri where he’s filming from behind the barrier and trying valiantly not to be visibly bitter about his own leg still being in plaster. Viktor and Yuuri stand beside him, proud and wrinkly. Yuri would never admit it, but it’s nice having them here. Children should have godparents, even if those godparents are annoying, and it’s been too long since they were all together, as a family. Even the stupid dog belongs here, napping at Yuri’s feet. He sleeps a lot since his snout turned all grey and they had to pay a fucking fortune to get one of his kidneys removed. 

“Look, my knife shoes are so pretty!” Nikolina shouts and enthusiastically waves at Yuri, Yuuri and Viktor. Her blades glitter in the floodlight. 

Viktor’s face is a bit too smug for Yuri’s taste. “Aren’t they perfect for my little angel? They’re custom-made.” 

“Shut up, old man, you’re ruining the video,” Yuri hisses while simultaneously keeping his smiling facade for Nikolina and Emil. “And, by the way, the story was boring the first fifty times you told it.”

“Stop arguing or you’ll miss her first solo skate,” Yuuri says, always the mediator.

Emil lets go of Nikolina’s hand and glides away from her, calling her out to follow him. Despite years of not skating competitively he has still kept his grace. “Nika, come here!” 

Nikolina’s eyebrows wrinkle and she takes a clumsy step in his direction, just as if she was wearing ordinary shoes. Yuri holds his breath. Maybe she will be able to dance on the ice right away like he did when he was three years old, on the day he was told for the first time that he was special. If Grandpa’s watching from above, he’s surely rooting for the great-granddaughter he never got to know. 

Despite her looks, Nikolina has neither Emil nor Yuri’s genes. The thud when she hits the ice face-first makes Yuri flinch and almost drop his phone. Before he or anyone else can even run (or hobble) towards her and help, she gets up with a very annoyed huff and glares at each and everyone of them. When the pain signal finally hits her toddler brain, she throws a Czech-Russian tantrum that is worthy of a real Plisetsky. It’s pretty impressive, actually.

“Nikolina Žofie Plisetsky!” Emil thunders like the perfect dad he is and skates over. “Stop it immediately!”

“But it hurts! I hate this shit!” she sobs into his arms while Emil pats her back, whispering sweet words into her curls.

“Oh my,” Yuuri says. 

“Nikolai would surely roll over in his grave.” Viktor holds back a chuckle. Someone needs to tell him that chuckling is far less adorable when you are old as fuck. “Where on earth did she learn those words, I wonder?”

Only then does Yuri realise that he’s completely captivated by his family: by Emil, by this girl who calls him _papa_ and knows far more insults than are healthy for a girl her size and age, and even by the fucking dog, which is kind of cute when it’s asleep and isn’t drooling on his Persian carpets. 

“Don’t you fucking dare mock my daughter,” he growls and stares Viktor down, just like in the old times. The dog wakes up and sighs before its head sinks back to the ground. 

Goddamn helper syndrome, that shit must be contagious. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to “Majesty” by Marika Hackman
> 
> ***
> 
> This is my longest project so far and hadn’t it been for my personal Avengers team from all around the globe, I’d probably never have finished. Thank God for internet friends!
> 
> My betas Ashiiblack (for Emil) and breathtaken (for Yuri) made this fic better by giving useful writing advice, making me change sentences, asking questions, axing whole parts and listening to my general whining. I learned a lot from you and will try to grow as a writer in the future. 
> 
> Greygerbil created the cutest art, put so much love in her work and brought all my original characters to life. Thank you for plotting with me and for the beautiful pictures.
> 
> Vixen13 was always there for advice, may it be about the poly aspect of this story or general plot ideas. You did incredibly important work and I’m so happy you’re always there for me for advice and an open ear. 
> 
> A lot of other people helped, some of them are named here - SumiMuraMo, Imaginary_Dragonling, Daffy and so many more did beta work, gave emergency feedback or did cheerleading. You all rock!!
> 
> Last but not least: Oceanwhirl, this one is for you. You know why. <3


End file.
